To Return From Death
by KnightFury
Summary: Holmes may not know it just yet, but he is fast approaching the end of his hiatus. All he wants now is to be reunited with his Boswell and walk the beloved streets of his London, but he has his fears and doubts - London may have changed dramatically and Watson may not want to forgive him. Chapter 10 revised 15-09-14 as I have never much liked it. Rated T for drug usage.
1. Home Thoughts From Abroad

**Home Thoughts From Abroad**

Oh to see England again... I have been away from home for far longer than I ever expected, much less intended. I miss London, the familiar hustle and bustle of the streets, and still ever more keenly I miss my dear friend Watson.

Time and again I have relived those moments at Reichenbach in my dreams and attempted something different. I have returned his desperate and heart-wrenching calls, I have revealed myself to him, I have not concealed myself at all... I am unsure whether my subconscious only wishes to remove my guilt, but every alternative has met with some form of tragedy. Never the less, it matters not. Still I miss my friend and regret leaving him to grieve for these three years. Perhaps one day I shall explain my reasons to him, if he ever forgives me.

The news of the death of my Boswell's wife has come as a terrible shock. My heart weeps for my dear, gentle friend who needs me now more than he ever has. I must return soon, but first Colonel Sebastian Moran must make a mistake. I have been waiting for one since I first went into hiding and there are moments, in my darkest hours, when I doubt that the wretched man ever will make one. How I wish that news of my Watson had not reached me, for no amount of wishing, hoping or longing can return me to his side. I must be patient.

For what feels like the hundredth time I have taken up my pen to write for my dearest - my only - friend. Even the opening line of 'My dear Watson' sounds trite. How can I even write it? How could I make the fellow see that he is still dear to me when I have abandoned him? I screw up the piece of parchment and throw it upon the dying fire. I shall write to Mycroft instead and tell him to let my friend of old know that I am alive and endeavouring to return to England. My brother knows all; he can explain. It was, after all, my brother who talked me into allowing my friend to continue to believe me to be dead in the first place.

I pace restlessly. My thoughts continuously running ahead of me, to board a steamship bound for England and return to my home. My very soul cries out for English tea and London's fog, smell and noise. But, above all else, I miss Watson.


	2. Homeward Bound

**Homeward Bound**

I am far from comfortable. The water of the English Channel has been rough since I boarded this miserable vessel and I am suffering a seasickness of the kind that I have not suffered in an age. It is not helped by the temperatures; the crossing is always frightfully cold at this time of year and I am not travelling first class. Perhaps I should be grateful that I could afford not to travel third class, however; that would mean hot, cramped and crowded conditions, with no privacy, paired with the noise of the engines. Surely it is better to freeze than to suffer that.

When I no longer feel as if I may disgrace myself by vomiting at any moment, I follow the advice that Watson would give to me and make my way out onto the deck. I sit down at the front of the vessel and try to relax. I am beginning to think that I might feel just as sick even if the water were calm, for I am in far too agitated a state to feel well, I fear. I have never known that a fellow could feel so many different and conflicting emotions! I am both excited and fearful to be returning to London, filled with delight and apprehension at the thought of seeing Watson again.

Will Watson be pleased to see me? Will he greet me with open arms and a cry of joy, or with anger or even hatred? I begin to run through his many possible reactions in my mind and attempt to find the correct words to say.

How I wish I had thought to write him a note to read! I do not trust my pride or my tongue. If my friend were to throw me out, I might say some dreadful things in the heat of the moment. On the other hand, should the fellow be forgiving and welcome me back as if nothing had happened, I doubt that I shall ever find it within myself to tell him how I have missed him. I am not known for my shows of affection.

I finally leave the vessel to board a train, still feeling horribly sick and confused. I shall somehow have to clear my head before I face my foe, or he may yet kill me after all of my precautions.

What am I to do first when I eventually reach London? To freshen up and make some form of plan is the obvious answer. To drink a good cup of English tea to settle my nerves is another, for my mind is a whirl of fears, doubts and anticipation.

This can only mean one thing. My first port of call shall have to be my only safe haven. I must return home to Baker Street.


	3. Where The Hearth Is

**Where The Hearth Is**

I arrive at Baker Street dressed as myself. Moran knows that I am still among the living; there is no need to attempt to remain concealed from him. Let the devil know that I have come home to face him at last!

I enter 221B and am met by a terrified Mrs. Hudson. She must take me to be a ghost, judging by the look upon her face. The woman is trembling and staring at me with wide, blue eyes as she attempts to say something. Her face is also dreadfully pale; as white as her pinafore.

A gentle smile does not reassure my housekeeper, so I gesture for her to calm herself as I approach her in a series of long strides. Before I am even fully aware of what I am doing, I have gathered her into my arms in an embrace which neither of us seem willing to part from. I find myself smiling as she whispers my name in a happy yet tearful manner while she rests her head at my chest. I feel like the Prodigal Son that has just been welcomed home by a loving and forgiving mother - I could almost cry with her. I do not deserve such a welcome.

With Mrs. Hudson finally calmed and reassured (and now that I am also feeling better), I enter the sitting room to find it just as I remembered (if I ignore the mourning black additions to the furnishings, the staleness of the tobacco scent and the lack of a fire in the grate, resulting in the room remaining chilled and giving it a neglected air). My housekeeper soon remedies the lack of a fire and I take to my armchair, wishing only that my dear friend Watson was seated across from me.

A soothing cup of tea later, I have a plan of action. I know - well, I am almost certain - where the good doctor will be. I shall find him and follow him to his home, for it would never do for me to arrive at the home that I know to be his only to find that he has moved. Grief affects each one of us differently and can cause any man to become uncharacteristically unreliable or irrational. He may have sold his home and practice and moved on simply because he found that it held too many memories that had become painful for him.

I observed when I entered the house that I was being watched by none other than Parker the garrotter. He himself does not worry me a jot, but I know why a fellow such as he would be watching the house only too well. I shall have to warn Mrs. Hudson before I leave - and I cannot possibly go out the front door either; especially not in disguise. I shall leave by way of my bedroom window and slip through the courtyard to the rear of the building and into the street further down. I shall be in disguise and should not even earn a glance from the lookout.

As I turn my steps in the direction of the inquest of Ronald Adaire, which I have little doubt that Watson will not be able to resist attending, my thoughts again stray to my dear friend and I have to concentrate more than I should upon my current role. I am dreadfully excited at the thought of our reunion being only minutes away and feel an incredible, almost irrepressible urge to straighten my legs and back in order to break into a run. What I shall say to my friend of old and what to expect I am still unable to determine, however, and that alone enables me to keep my pace slow and pensive while a slight tremor inexplicably takes to my hands and legs. I remind myself that I cannot recall the last occasion when I last properly slept and that I am most likely exhausted. Besides, it is all the better to give weight to my disguise as an elderly and frail book-collector, I tell myself.


	4. Watson

**Watson**

I set myself down on the cold stone steps, where a crowd has gathered outside of the court. I hardly notice the chill in the air; I have been in colder climates than this in the last three years. Never the less, I am still trembling slightly as I wait for my companion to step outside.

Watson does not even see me when he does emerge. He seems to be in a hurry to return to his home, for his eyes are on the cab that he has hailed and as a result he almost tramples me as he descends the steps upon which I sit. He notices me when he knocks a bundle of books from my hand and quickly apologises and returns them to me. It takes all of my powers to retain my delight at seeing him and to instead strike him with the weak yet furious blow of an old man insulted.

Kindly gentleman that my Boswell is, he gives no indication that he is angered or otherwise upset by my behaviour. He simply gives one final, hasty apology and takes to the cab. I hear him give his address and then I follow him there. Now for the difficult part.

The housemaid is utterly useless! Mrs. Hudson would never put up with her and would have had her removed from her team of servants in a trice. She has a quiet, dozy sort of voice, a sleepy-looking face and a countenance that suggests that she has no intention of paying attention to her work. I tell her that I would like to see Doctor Watson without delay and am left waiting on the doorstep! Not the best treatment for a frail and elderly man, is it? I step inside, with a hand at my heart and a faltering step, and close the door. If Watson is being watched, nobody will think it odd if my friend allows me to stay for it will appear that I am just another patient. Once inside I hastily follow the sound of voices.

Watson is annoyed. I can hear him telling the wretched maid that the times in which his practice is open are clearly displayed outside. He wishes to send me away! We shall soon see about that - I have come too far and waited too long to be told to make an appointment and return later. What to do? I could collapse upon the floor and am weary enough to do so quite easily, but that would cause my Boswell unnecessary concern and I have hurt him quite enough. No. I shall not trick my friend into welcoming me back. He shall react as he sees fit.

I enter Watson's consulting room in a flurry of anxiety and quickly take to the chair before his desk, at which he is sitting. I tell him that I felt some remorse, having treated him so poorly, and decided to follow him home when I heard him give his address. If I had hoped to give him an indication regarding my true identity I would be disappointed, but the poor fellow has believed me to be dead and gone for the last three years.

After telling my friend that I would part with some of my books if he wanted any (for a small price; my character is a shrewd old fellow) by way of an apology, I point out to the chap that his bookshelf is rather untidy, for there are more gaps than books upon it, and take the opportunity to hastily stand to my full height and unmask myself. As he begins to turn back I smile. I cannot resist commanding his full attention.

"Watson, would you mind if I smoke a cigarette in your consulting room?"

He does indeed completely turn to face me in one sharp movement. Then he stiffens and stares back at me in amazement. I feel tears of unease prick my eyes; if he is going to send me away with a flea in my ear, it will come now. But Watson simply continues to stare. He does not look as frightened as Mrs. Hudson did, he simply looks baffled, but I felt so much better after embracing my housekeeper that it might help us both and set us on the right footing if I give my biographer the same treatment. Somewhat timidly, I smile and open my arms to my old friend in a silent invitation for him to come to me. Perhaps that only adds to his shock, for he chooses that moment to sag and drop to the floor in a faint.

As I watch my old friend fall as if time has slowed to a crawl, I know a moment of panic. It is not in Watson's habit to faint and I fear for him terribly as I begin to see just how much anguish and strain my supposed death has caused the dear fellow. With trembling hands I quickly unfasten his shirtsleeves to check his pulse before returning him to his chair. This done, I then loosen his tie to unfasten his collar before checking him for fever and dosing him with brandy from my flask.

I apologise quietly as my Boswell revives. I should have realised that my sudden return from the watery grave that he took me to be in would have given him a terrible shock. I should have realised that a man like my Watson, with his tender and kind heart, would not have ceased to grieve the moment that he was away from the dreadful place in which he left me any more than I had ceased to miss him in these last three years.

Still I remain nervous. Had I fainted as a result of such a horrible trick, I would be angry with the man responsible. I expect my friend of old to fly into a fit of temper at any moment and to throw me out, for it would be no more than I deserve. I keep my tone quiet, still feeling closer to tears than I ever remember being.

Suddenly Watson's face lights up with a delighted smile and relief floods me. I am forgiven! It is more than I deserve, which makes the sensation of relief all the more delicious.

Slowly I calm myself as my friend of old urges me to sit down and tell all, which I do. I tell too much, all at once too overcome with relief to weigh my words with necessary care. Why did I have to mention Mycroft's help? Even as the words are leaving my lips I realise my mistake and almost choke on something that is midway between a nervous laugh and a sob.

As is my Boswell's wont, he reacts not with resentment but with empathy and a sympathetic nod. Of course I needed money in order to live! However, he is hurt. I can see that in his stance and his expressive face.

"I would like to think that I am as trustworthy as your brother,"

These words he utters when my treacherous tongue adds insult to injury by saying that I often took up my pen to write to him, which is the truth, but that I always thought better of it because he might have allowed his emotion to betray me, which is not even half the truth. Yes, he may have wrote back to me and given away my position, but his reply would not have found me anyway because I would have been gone from there already! No. My pride simply forbids me from admitting that I was just too cowardly to tell him that I was alive, regretful and missing him, as doing so would have meant bearing my very soul to him and handing him my heart to treat well or ill. Oh, how I deserve for him to treat me ill! Why does he still not hate me?

"Of course you are!" I assure him with no small amount of frustrated vehemence. Then I smile. Here is a way to undo some of the shameful hurt that I have inflicted upon him so needlessly with my confounded thoughtless pride. "But you have a kinder heart."

I suddenly realise that I am indeed exhausted. Just talking to Watson is becoming too much, despite the fact that I have wanted little else for three long years. I sit myself upon his couch, which is made of leather (so that its surface can easily be kept clean) and is ready and waiting for a patient, complete with woolen rug and pillow. I ask if the fellow would mind if I make use of this makeshift bed for a few hours, all thought of food pushed from my mind as the more pressing need for sleep displaces it. And again my pride takes charge of my easily lead tongue. I tell him that the crossing was rough, that I was filled with anticipation in regard to my old enemy Moran, to say nothing of seeing London again... and then, as if as an afterthought, I gesture toward my Boswell and add that I was also looking forward to seeing him again. Why? Why can I not just tell him that he was missed?

All the same, the fellow seems to know what it is that I really wish to say. He smiles. He then urges me to make use of his bedroom, but I could never do that. I am in need of a bath, for one thing, and I might be harbouring bedbugs or other unwelcome guests. I have been in some rather unpleasant places of late. Besides, I want to know that Watson is close at hand - I want to awake and see him near, for I might well be disorientated and fearful when I do wake. With a grateful sigh I lie back, pulling the rug over me in a somewhat haphazard manner as I do so, and slip almost immediately into slumber.


	5. The Empty House

**The Empty House**

When I awake, I find that I have been made comfortable by my kindly Boswell. My shoes have been removed from my feet and I have more rugs covering me than I did when I took to this couch. The curtains have been drawn, the gas turned down low and I am warmer than I have been in what seems an age.

I sit up quickly - a little too quickly for a man that has not always had enough time for luxuries such as nourishment and sleep - and am quickly reassured by my friend of old.

"It is all right Holmes. You are quite safe here."

I nod and rub at my forehead as I try not to yawn. "What time is it?"

The fellow comes to my side and rests a hand upon my shoulder. "Time for dinner," he informs me firmly.

Yes, of course it is. Watson is very fond of his meals. I smile at him and admit that I am indeed hungry. In actual fact I am famished but, having been forced to eat often very meagre rations for such a long time, I am not sure quite how much I could manage. At least I am not in the habit of eating much anyway, so I am not going to worry him as much as I might if I only find enough appetite for very little.

I try to at least eat a little of everything at dinner, but my nerves are still on edge. Though I feel better now that I have been reunited with my dear Watson, there is still a murderer at large who means to kill me and we have a plan to put in motion.

"When you like, where you like," were my Boswell's words when he was asked whether he would come with me earlier. How I have missed his loyalty! I have not missed his concern quite so much (he is watching me pick at the food on my plate with an expression that tells me that he wishes that I would eat properly) but I shall put up with that.

Despite my earlier impatience to see my old friend again, I have formulated a trap that should ensnare Moran. I send a message to Lestrade, who is working the Adaire case (and who, by all accounts - or at least Watson's, has been missing me) and then take my biographer off into the night as if it has not been three years since we last shared an adventure.

I take my Boswell by the hand and eagerly guide (nay, drag) him inside an empty house that I have selected as providing a perfect view for the drama which is about to unfold.

The stairs and floorboards creak as we take our positions, there is nowhere for my companion to sit (I should have thought about that and warned him; perhaps he would have preferred to have stayed at home) and it is terribly cold. I take Watson's mind off of the discomfort that he must be feeling by directing his attention to the street that we are facing and the lit window opposite the one that he is standing at. Of course he thinks the wax bust of me marvelous, though he fails to understand its importance. I simply tell him that I wish to be believed to still be at home, while I am in fact elsewhere.

It is not long before I am myself becoming uncomfortable in this cold room, and I am used to remaining on my feet for extended periods and I have grown accustomed to being cold. I should like to pace in order to warm myself, albeit only slightly, and stretch my legs, but it might be wiser to remain still. I am not quite sure what Moran might do or where he might be.

"Holmes!"

I am immediately alert. The excited whisper from my Boswell has arrested my interest at once, but I am to be disappointed; he has only noticed some members of the official police. I snort and drum my fingers impatiently. The bunglers may think themselves inconspicuous, but any criminal can clearly see them for what they are at a glance. Well, at least I now know that Lestrade has received my message.

Time is dragging on and the urge to move is becoming almost impossible to bear when a creak sounds from a stair. Watson and I freeze for a moment and then hasten to conceal ourselves in the darkness. Did we leave the front door ajar and arouse the interest of a passing policeman? I cannot distinctly remember shutting the door. Did my Boswell enter behind me? Did he shut the door?

The door opens and a man enters the room. Without a moment's hesitation he makes his way to the very window from which my friend and I had been keeping our watch just moments before.

A gun is assembled and then pointed at the wax bust. I wait until it has been fired and then leap at the assassin with a cry. Now I shall have my revenge for the three years of misery that he has forced us both to endure!

The struggle is embarrassing! I had thought that Moran and I would have been more evenly matched, but I am becoming exhausted and I all but permit him to strangle me. Were Watson not here I am quite sure that he would have succeeded in doing so, for I cannot seem to manage to escape his squeezing clutches.

There is a sudden, confusing clamour of noises and then Lestrade and his men are present. I quickly bring my coughing under control, though my throat remains horribly sore, and congratulate the inspector for catching his man. I then get a little... excited and shout at Moran, glad as I am to finally have him caught. I am not fully aware of what I am saying, so relieved and angry am I, and Watson's placating hand only causes me to turn a snarl in his direction. How dare he attempt to pacify me now! Does he not realise that at least half of this vent is made on his behalf? This murderer has forced me to do something that should never be done and so he deserves worse than I could ever inflict upon him.

Ha! Now our criminal wishes to know what it is that he is being charged with. Perhaps he believes that attempting to murder me - twice - is pardonable (though, judging by the reaction of the public at Watson's announcement that I had died, I imagine him to be sorely mistaken) and that he shall get away with that. Either way, it matters not a jot.

Lestrade looks baffled when I inform him that he has caught the murderer of Adaire and dismiss the attempt on my life as unimportant. I explain all readily enough and watch as Moran is taken away. Thank God! Lestrade then shakes me warmly by the hand and I realise with a sensation that I cannot quite place that it is me that he has missed and not so much my methods. I am not very sure of myself or how to react and so I hand over to Watson while I attempt to collect myself.

"Well," Watson says after a long and uncomfortable silence, when we are finally alone. "What happens now?"

I cannot bring myself to meet his gaze. Our silences were never uncomfortable before now; there had never been a time when we knew not what to say or how to say it. Before my hiatus we simply had nothing to say because we knew one another so well and there had been no cause for idle talk. Will I ever right the terrible wrong that was done to my dear friend?

"Are you all right?" the doctor's hand is resting at my shoulder in an instant. "Holmes?"

I nod and keep myself from pulling away from him. Though I know exactly what my old friend has said, I ask him to repeat in order to appear to have only been lost in thought. Not that I ever am.

"Now?" I smile at him. "Now, if you have nothing better to do, you are welcome to come -" No! Baker Street is not Watson's home "- come back with me to Baker Street for a nice, warming drink." That is as far forward as I dare to look for now. But, dare I think, the fellow must surely be as lonely as I am. Perhaps he might move back in with me if I make him welcome and give him some time.


	6. Torment and Regret

**Torment and Regret**

Watson is in obvious discomfort as we descend the stairs. As is his wont, he remains silent, not giving so much as a grunt of complaint, but it is clear - despite the manner in which he tries not to limp - that his old wounds are hurting him. As I take his arm, having stepped into the street, I discover that he is shivering as well.

"We shall take a cab home," I tell my friend. "I hope you do not mind old fellow, but I am somewhat weary and chilled."

His hand squeezes my arm and he immediately moves closer to my side. I recall that voicing my own discomforts always tended to receive a much better reaction than informing my Boswell that I was aware of his ever did. I am glad that that does not seem to have changed or else I would not know what to do.

As I hail a cab and allow Watson to get in ahead of me a light but chilling drizzle begins to fall. I am grateful for the rugs that the cabby supplies.

"Are you all right?" my old friend asks with no small amount of concern, despite the fact that he is still shivering, as I cover us both with the rugs provided.

I sniff quietly and address him with a smile in the darkness. "There is nothing wrong that a hot bath and glass of port cannot put right," I assure him. "But how are you?"

He raises his eyebrows at me in surprise. "I am fine! I have not been tirelessly touring the continent for three years, after all. You look much thinner than I ever remember seeing you and you do seem very tired."

I do hope that he does not intend to examine me; I do not wish to row with him tonight. No, I need not fear; my Boswell has neglected to bring his bag so a dispute between us is unlikely to take place this night. That does not mean that it may not happen tomorrow, however.

We travel in silence for a time, still not as comfortably as we had before my hiatus. Perhaps Watson is simply endeavouring to keep from expressing the pain that he is in; I can see that he is tense. There was a time when I would have offered the fellow what comfort I could, but he does not seem to wish for me to know that anything is wrong at all. That, of course, complicates matters.

Naturally, my Boswell ensures that I take my bath with enough time allowed for me to dry myself and, despite the pleasure that the warming water brings, I waste no time. I am not sure whether my friend intends to stay the night or not and I am not quite sure how to ask him. Anyway, if he is to return to his practice I hardly intend to waste any time. I scramble from the bath the moment that I am clean and dress without sparing a moment to dry myself; instead wrapping a towel about me to keep the shivers, which are already beginning in this chilly bathroom, at bay as I return to the sitting room.

Watson is sitting in his chair with a half-finishef glass of port in his hand, raised midway to his lips, as he gazes sleepily into the fire. Poor old fellow! He looks as weary as I feel. I silence a yawn and take to my own chair, opposite his.

"Thank you for coming back."

The words are little more than a sleepy mumble, but they arrest my attention at once. I smile at my friend of old.

"I only wish that I could have done so sooner," I confess quietly. "I never intended to be gone for so long."

"Mm."

Is that all that the fellow has to say? I lean forward in my chair and see at once that he has fallen asleep, his port glass resting somewhat precariously at the arm of his chair while his head rests propped against his uninjured shoulder. I act quickly, first taking the unfinished glass from his fingers and then carrying him to the settee, covering him first with his coat and then some warm rugs from the airing cupboard.

With my Boswell settled, I take the time to tend to myself. I first have a warming drink of my own and ensure that the fire is not about to go out and then I dry my dripping hair. I really do not wish to have my friend fussing over me tomorrow, however much the thought of him staying here might appeal to me; I want Watson the companion, not Watson the doctor.

Once I am dry and warmed I take to my bed, leaving my bedroom door ajar. I still wish to know that Watson is near now that I have returned and know not how I shall sleep when he is absent. The clawing loneliness that I felt during my hiatus has not completely abated even now.

I settle back and stare up at the ceiling. Tomorrow I must talk to Watson about moving back into his old room. He must surely need my company as much as I need his? With the decision made I close my eyes and permit myself to relax.

The sound of the Reichenbach Falls is almost deafening and the spray that is thrown up by the water as it hits the bottom truly is like the smoke rising from a burning house, just as Watson said. Even as I think of him, I see the fellow rush into view. He is clearly winded, having hastened back to me as soon as he knew that the note that requested him to return to the inn was a ruse, and he is limping.

Anxiously, the fellow approaches the edge, much too close for my liking, and calls for me. I almost call back but stop myself. It would be best, for the time being, if the world believes me to be dead. All the same, tears of regret and anguish stab at my eyes as my Boswell breaks down. I never knew that anyone could love me, of all people, like that and this revelation hurts me far more than the separation will, I am sure.

It takes all of my resolve to remain hidden. Were Watson now alone in the world, I am sure that I could not carry this decision through, but he has his dear and loving wife; he shall be all right. As he moves away I realise, as one often does in dreams, that Mary will be dead before I can return. It is this knowledge that breaks me and I awake gasping for breath while tears stream down my face.

"Holmes?" Watson calls sleepily from his place on the settee when I begin to cough. "Are you all right?"

Damn! I had forgotten that my friend was in the next room - not that I could have controlled my reactions while I slept and my guard was down at any rate.

I clear my throat before giving a response. "Yes Watson. I just need some water; give me a moment."

By the time that I have made my way down to the kitchen, filled a glass with drinking water and returned to my bedroom my hands are steady. I have also washed my face at the kitchen sink so that there is no sign of the emotional state that I was in when I awoke. Watson is a doctor, and a sympathetic one at that, but I would not like to talk to him about this. I might break down again and that would never do. Besides, such a show of emotion from me is bound to unnerve and upset him.

To reassure my friend I return to the sitting room, where I find him quite wakeful and anxiously awaiting my return. He frowns at me and hands me his handkerchief.

"You are catching a cold I fear," he remarks with concern as I take the cloth gratefully and quietly blow my nose. "And no wonder if you will insist on wandering the house without a dressing gown or slippers. My God Holmes! How ever did you survive the past three years without catching pneumonia?"

I simply shrug and sip at the water in my hand while he wraps me in one of the rugs. I could assure him that I am most certainly not unwell, but then I would have to tell him of the nightmare. I would prefer for the fellow to draw his own conclusion, I suppose.

"I could simply have choked in my sleep," I remind my friend at length. "I could have become entangled in my bedcovers, rested my throat against my arms or hands..."

He frowns back at me. "Hum, and is that what happened, or are you only trying to put me off? Further more, how is your throat? I take it that it is hurting you after Moran attempted to strangle you. Perhaps I should take a look at it."

In an instant the gas has been turned up and my friend is indeed examining my throat for signs of damage and the rest of me for signs of illness. At last he seems satisfied.

"There is some bruising to your throat left by that damned Moran, but you do seem to be well otherwise," he says with obvious relief. "If there is anything else amiss, it surely cannot be more than a slight chill that you are catching."

I smile at him and assure him that I do feel quite all right.

"All the same, you should rest for a day or two," the chap informs me. "I would not like for you to become ill old fellow - I know that you would not send for me if you did."

I shrug and finish the water. It does help my throat somewhat. "You have patients that take priority."

Watson shakes his head and touches my arm briefly. "You are my friend. If you need me you should send for me."

I close my eyes and nod, unable to trust my own response. For some reason I still feel somewhat emotional. It is inexplicable! And yet... Perhaps it can be attributed to relief; it is not unheard of for tensions to catch up on a fellow when the danger has passed. It is, however, almost unheard of for me to react in such a manner.

"Are you sure that you are all right?" my Boswell asks of me. "Your eyes seem a little too bright."

I permit myself a cavernous yawn, which I cover with my arm, and blink back at him. "Sleepy," I mumble as my eyelids slowly sag and half-close.

"Yes, it is late. I shall have to rise early tomorrow as well; the influenza season is not quite over yet."

Then I shall have to rise early as well. I am about to return to bed when I remember my violin and decide that we both might sleep better for a few soothing notes. As I raise my sorely missed instrument to my chin I hear my companion give a quiet sigh of contentment and settle himself to listen.

By the time I have finished my first piece, the fellow is snoring quietly. Still I continue, for my Boswell may be soothed and slumbering peacefully but I am not yet ready to face my bed.

Before I am midway through the third piece Watson has curled up on his side and ceased to snore. Good! If memory serves me, he does not always snore and so that would most likely be a sign that something was amiss. I may not be a doctor but I am observant and I know my dear friend.

Having ended the music with a flourish I ensure that my Boswell is warm and comfortable before stoking the fire once more and turning down the gas. I then get myself another glass of water and return to my bed, safe in the knowledge that I shall undoubtedly awake very early tomorrow.


	7. The Storm Breaks

**The Storm Breaks**

I am pulled from a pleasant dream, which I only half-remember, by the demands of my irksome body. It may be a mere appendix to my brain, but there are times when it screams too loudly for even me to ignore. Damn! I must have been badly in need of sleep, for usually I would have been disturbed long before now. Where am I and where is the washroom?

I realise with some gratitude that I am in my own room at Baker Street and that I am not going to have to search for the facilities (it is not always easy to recall such things as the floorplan of a place to mind when a fellow's brain is still befuddled with sleep - especially if he has only moved in late the night before and not thought to seek out more than his bed) as I have on countless mornings these past three years. With as much haste as I dare I disentangle myself from my bed and hasten in the direction of the little washroom which is situated behind a discreet door in the sitting room.

"Good morning Holmes."

How I keep myself from jumping I am not quite sure, but I am certainly glad of it. I am not usually foolish enough to drink so much before I sleep and this resulting discomfort is almost unbearable! I somehow keep still and stand straight as I respond; Watson does not need to know how I am feeling at this moment. I maintain my usual calm demeanor as I return the fellow's greeting with a tight smile. I then excuse myself as quickly as politeness will allow.

It is while I am washing my hands that I recall that I had wanted to awake before Watson left for his confounded practice. I rush back through to the sitting room and join the fellow at the breakfast table.

"You are up early," my friend remarks. "Is that a new habit or were you unable to sleep?"

I shrug and conceal a yawn. I may have wanted to awake early, but I still feel in need of sleep. I cannot recall the last morning on which I could have remained in my bed until noon had I wanted.

"How is your throat?" is the next question. "I noticed that you were drinking rather a lot of water last night; it must have been troubling you terribly."

I nod and pull my dressing gown closer to me with a shiver. Weariness often causes me to feel chilly.

"Are you sure that you have not caught a cold?"

Oh Watson! I slam my eyes shut and grind my teeth. "I am quite all right," I assure him brusquely. "You did check me for signs of illness last night, if you recall."

He nods and tries not to yawn. "Sorry Holmes. You simply do not seem to be yourself. You only ever drink water when you are feeling particularly unwell, for one thing..."

"My throat was sore from being strangled; I believe that that is quite normal. Really Watson! Do not fret so."

He frowns back at me. "I am not fretting! It does not take a doctor to see that you are weary and shivering."

No, it does not. I would notice immediately if even a complete stranger was feeling as weary and cold as I currently am.

The fellow touches my hand gently and frowns. "You are freezing! I really think that you should go back to bed. Is there anything that you need?"

More than anything, I want companionship; I have been intolerably lonely these past three years. I shake my head and attempt to order my thoughts, for I desperately want to talk to the fellow about moving back in with me now, so that he has ample opportunity to consider it in his own time.

"Are you quite sure that you are all right?" my friend asks of me yet again, with still more concern, as I begin to caress the tablecloth as if I were stroking a cat in my effort to calm myself.

I nod and force myself to meet his gaze. "I have been dreadfully lonely, these past three years..." I begin awkwardly, as I attempt to voice my proposition. It is not in my habit to prevaricate and it frustrates and angers me, but I simply cannot find the appropriate words to say.

"Oh God!" he squeezes my hand gently. "All right old fellow, I understand. I must say that it surprises me that you should have even thought to find company in such a manner, but it is quite normal..."

I give a start and stare back at him. "What the deuce are you talking about?"

He raises his eyebrows. "I thought that you were trying to explain to me why you are feeling unwell. You gave me the impression that you were trying to make a confession of some kind."

"Are you insane?" I shout at him. "What do you think I might have been doing, aside from trying to keep out of sight of Moriarty's vengeful companion? No! Do not answer that. I know what you were thinking! You doctors are all the same!"

I should not have said that. I hastily grip his arm and apologise as he attempts to stand.

"Forgive me old fellow. You know how I can be when I have not slept peacefully."

He frowns at me for a long moment. "Then go and do so now."

It can wait. "Please, just listen!" I shout at him as I run my hands through my far from tidy hair in my frustration.

"I haven't the time Holmes. I have to get back to my practice."

As he shrugs on his coat I throw caution to the wind. "I think that it is ridiculous that we are living rather lonely lives when we both know that we are perfectly compatible," I all but shout at him, so anxious am I to make myself understood.

Watson freezes and stares back at me for a long moment. "You are right when you say that you are a selfish wretch," he informs me in the dangerously calm tone which he uses when he is about to fly into a fit of temper. And now the storm breaks. "How dare you Holmes! You left me to grieve for you for three damned years, in which time I lost my dear wife and received very little support, and now you turn up and just expect everything to just go back to the way that it was! I hope you were lonely - I hope that you were bloody miserable! - because I certainly have been!"

And with that he is limping away and has vanished in a series of slamming doors, leaving me to stare after him with stinging eyes. What did I say to upset him so? All that I said was that I have been lonely and know that he must be as well! Why did he react in such a manner?

With a groan I massage my suddenly throbbing forehead before bringing it down to rest in my hands with a strangled sob. Everything has gone wrong! After all my effort to return quickly, all the fretting that I have done... A sob of despair escapes my painful throat. It was all for nothing! It would have been better if I truly had gone over the Reichenbach Falls; at least then my only friend would still have had faith in me.

* * *

><p><em>This is just a quick acknowledgement to all of the guests for their kind and encouraging reviews. I have intended to do this for at least two chapters but, as I am in the habit of responding by personal message, I have continuously forgotten - I apologise for my tardiness. In any case, thank you all very much! I hope that you continue to enjoy the story.<em>


	8. Seeking Refuge

**Seeking Refuge**

I awake with a sudden jerk and force myself into an upright position, causing the rug that I have been covered with to slip to the floor from off my shoulders. I know not how long I have been sitting here at the dining table with my head resting on my folded arms, but I now have an ache in my neck and between my shoulder blades to add to my many discomforts. I sniff and rub at my eyes, removing the remnants of my drying tears with the back of my hand as I shiver with cold.

The memories of what took place early this morning return with such force that, for a moment, I feel as if I might be sick. I do all that I can to calm myself; it would never do for me to vomit in the sitting room. Still my head continues to pain me terribly even when the nausea has abated and I groan and cradle it in my hands.

I have no doubt that I have lost my only friend. I must have done! I have never before seen him so angry in all the time that I have known him and would never have believed him capable of turning such fury upon me.

I stand shakily and begin to pace. It is then that my eye falls upon my locked desk drawer. I open it and pull out the little box that houses my cocaine and morphine, holding it close to my chest as I contemplate using it.

What harm could it do? Watson is gone - even if he found out that I had immediately turned to the substances for comfort he would most assuredly not care. The words 'I hope you were lonely, I hope you were bloody miserable!' are continuously repeating themselves in my brain, firmly cementing themselves in. I have lost him. With a sharp pang of morose loneliness I open the box and measure my usual seven per cent solution of cocaine.

For what seems a brief moment, my problems fade into insignificance and all is bliss. Nothing matters. I play something on my violin that sounds glorious and then I settle myself, cross legged, on the hearth rug and watch the colourful flames dance in the grate.

As the euphoria fades all too quickly, so the morose emotions return. They are worse than they were before. I shiver miserably, suddenly finding that I am feeling dreadfully chilled, and sneeze.

"It sounds as if you've caught a cold," Mrs. Hudson remarks as she comes in. "It's little wonder. Sleeping at the breakfast table in the draught like that! You were shivering in your sleep, you know."

Was I really? Well, it is of no import. I sniff quietly and warm my hands before the fire.

With a sigh my housekeeper drapes the rug that I left on the floor about my shoulders once more. "You should take better care. How ever did you manage alone for three years?"

I close my eyes hastily, feeling them prickle with tears yet again. I kept myself going with thoughts of home and those who mattered to me. Now I find myself even more alone than I was while I was away!

"Are you going to speak to me?"

I clear my constricting and painful throat with difficulty and lick my dry lips. "I would only drive you away too."

She snorts. "What nonsense! I come with the house Mr. Holmes. Here, have some tea."

I thank her gratefully and swallow the hot drink that she presses into my slightly-trembling hands without a pause. It does banish some of the chills.

"As for Doctor Watson," she continues with severity. "I am sure I don't know what you could have said or done to upset him so and no more do I wish to know. But he is a good man and I'm sure that he will forgive you when he is ready. He just needs some time, Mr. Holmes; he has had a dreadful time of it lately."

I nod and look away. I wanted to return home to him so that he would not be alone! I would have done so in an instant would it not have put us both in mortal danger. What good would that have done? Supposing I had been killed before I even reached London? That would most surely have hurt my Boswell more than my staying away. Had it been Watson who was killed... I shiver violently at the thought. That does not bear thinking about.

"You are cold! Sit in your chair and allow me to tend to the fire sir. You have not even had a bite to eat yet, have you?"

I wave her away. "I am not hungry."

"You'll fade away at this rate! Come now Mr. Holmes, you should eat something. It will do you good."

Cocaine always diminishes the appetite and my current emotional state leaves no room for food in any case. I light a cigarette and eye my morocco box as I consider taking another, stronger dosage. Seven per cent is a very weak solution, after all.

Mrs. Hudson throws up her hands. "Call me if you want anything."

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson," I hand her the teacup and dismiss her none too gently. I am feeling ill and miserable now that the cocaine is wearing off and I want to take more. I have no reason not to.

I resist the temptation for a moment or two. After Watson's reaction to the drug I do not like to take it in company and so I shall have to administer it quickly lest Mrs. Hudson returns too soon. The resulting euphoria envelops me and I return to chuckling at the fire.


	9. Paying the Price

**Paying the Price**

I have been very stupid. I always take no more than a single dosage of a seven per cent solution of cocaine for good reason. Why ever did I decide that I wanted more? Oh yes. Watson. I am abandoned. Alone. My actions matter not.

I groan and attempt to move. I cannot. My limbs are unwilling to respond and I am cold and shivering violently. Perhaps my companion was right when he said that I seem to be ailing because I feel quite dreadful now. My nose is dripping, I want to sneeze and my head is paining me terribly. Have I caught influenza? Watson would know.

The thought of my Boswell only causes me to feel worse. I curl myself into a ball upon the hearth rug, trying in vain to comfort my painfully cramping stomach, and screw my eyes tightly shut.

I know not how long I have lain here before Mrs. Hudson finds me in my prone position. She begins to cry when she receives no response from me and shouts rather a lot. Strange. I cannot understand very much of what is being said. I probably should find that frightening but I feel somewhat separated from reality, as if I am simply observing a play.

I become vaguely aware of uneven footsteps hurrying upstairs. Did I lock the sitting room door? The cold draught which assails me informs me that I did not, as does the sound of heavy feet limping inside. Damn! It would never do for a client to see me like this. Come Holmes! On your feet you lazy imbecile!

The feet approach slowly and stop short in front of me and I force my eyes, which I do not remember closing, to open and gaze up at the owner of them. Watson is frowning back at me with a very angry expression and I suddenly feel very small and vulnerable.

The fellow crouches at my side and takes my pulse with icy fingers. "What was it today?" he asks flatly. "Cocaine or morphine?"

That tone in itself is enough to make me cringe.

"Holmes? Can you answer me?"

"Cocaine."

His frown darkens but he nods. "How much?"

"Don't know."

He stares back at me, the colour draining from his face. "What do you mean you don't know? My God Holmes!"

Please Watson, do not shout at me. My stomach cramps painfully and I clutch at it with a moan as I try not to breathe.

With a shake of his head the fellow fetches some towels in from the washroom and spreads them beneath and before my head.

Thank you Watson, but I am not about to be sick just as long as you are gentle with me.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, in a tone that suggests that he is trying to sound sympathetic.

"Sorry."

He closes his eyes and forces a sigh through his teeth. "Yes, I expect that you are."

"Very sorry."

"That is not what I was asking."

I groan and grit my teeth against another painful stomach cramp.

"I take it that you are feeling sick?"

"Stomach ache." Somehow that makes it sound much more trivial than it feels. I can barely breathe for the pain!

He rests a hand at my forehead. It is terribly cold and provides my wretched nose with all the stimulation that it could possibly need. The whole length of my body jerks with the force of the resulting sternutation and I grind my teeth to avoid crying out.

"Bless you," the doctor wipes my running nose and pats my shoulder. "Have you caught a cold, or is this just another reaction to the cocaine?"

I shrug with a grimace.

"Were you feeling unwell before you took the cocaine?"

"I am not sure."

The doctor pinches the bridge of his nose. "Why the deuce do you do these things?"

I shrug with another grimace of pain. "It seemed to be a good idea... at the time."

He nods and closes his eyes, causing a single tear to make its escape down his face.

"Are you all right Watson?"

His eyes snap open and he frowns at me before scrubbing a hand across his eyes. "That is rather an odd question for you to ask me under the present circumstances, do you not think?"

"Perhaps," another painful cramp seizes me and it takes all of my self-control not to cry out. Think of something else Holmes! "I thought that you were needed at your practice..."

"Mrs. Hudson sent for me because you had collapsed and she was unable to rouse you. I feared the worst!"

I close my eyes with a grimace as he raises his voice. "I was never in any danger. I simply feel ill."

"Hum, yes. I should think that you do feel ill. Mrs. Hudson informed me that you had had nothing to eat and that she had noticed that you were shivering and sneezing. I feared that you had contracted influenza or something even more dangerous and debilitating," he growls, his voice shaking with intense anger. "As for there being no danger Holmes, cocaine is very dangerous - especially if you do not know how much you are taking! How could you be so stupid?"

Another groan escapes me but I cannot give an answer. I should have known that my dear friend would not abandon me and the very idea seems ridiculous now.

I feel his hand touch my shoulder lightly as he moves closer. "Mrs. Hudson seemed to be under the impression that you believed me to be gone for good. Is this true?"

I lick my dry lips and attempt to screw my eyes closed even tighter. "I have never seen you so angry."

"I was upset Holmes, but I did not mean to react like that. Were I not so tired and feeling so irritable I would not have done so. I do apologise old fellow."

I nod but say nothing. I am beginning to feel quite sick now and I want to remain still and quiet.

"I suppose I should have realised that you would do something like this," the fellow mumbles. "I did say some truly unforgivable things."

I groan and clamp my mouth shut as my paining stomach lurches. Ugh! Not now! Watson is in the way! "Move!"

My friend simply stares back at me blankly. Perhaps he cannot understand what I am attempting to say without opening my mouth.

Hastily I clutch at my stomach with one hand while I press the other over my trembling lips as a warning. Move Watson! Now!

"Oh. All right Holmes. It is all right."

I suppose that I should be proud of myself for somehow waiting until my friend is out of harm's way, but I am too wretchedly miserable and this is far too humiliating. It would be quite bad enough had I managed to run into the washroom and at least then my Boswell would not have been forced to watch me with that damned look of pity on his face!

"Are you all right now?"

"Wonderful."

"Can you sit up to rinse your mouth if I help you? I am sure that you would not like to be left with that unpleasant taste in your mouth."

I am not sure. I do feel frightfully odd. "Yes."

"All right then. Give me a moment old fellow."

Almost before I am aware of it, I am being lifted very gently by the shoulder so that my head is hanging rather limply over a bowl. Watson then assists me first in rinsing my mouth and then drinking some water.

"That is better, I am sure. You must be terribly thirsty!"

I nod with a grimace and am immediately plied with more. I wonder whether I should tell him that I have had enough; I might well have to drink, but I am not quite sure what I shall do when I have finished with all of this water if I am still unable to move. That would undoubtedly be horribly embarrassing!

"Do you still feel sick?" Watson asks as he washes the cheek that I was lying on with his handkerchief, having wetted it with a splash of water.

"No." I do feel faint though. My muscles feel weak as well, as if I have exerted myself more than is wise, and I want to sleep. Perhaps I need some morphine, but I dare not ask my Boswell to administer some and I very much doubt that I could manage it.

He props me against the settee with the bowl close to hand, should I change my mind, and quickly replaces the soiled towels with clean ones. Then I am returned to my previous position, with my friend gently tending to me. If he is trying to make me feel guilty he is most certainly succeeding!


	10. Fatigue and Anguish

**Fatigue and Anguish  
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_With a lot of help from Ems (thank you my dear!) I have edited this chapter so that it is rather more to my liking. I hope that you find it much improved. _

There is the sound of a bird scolding somewhere nearby - the alarm-call immediately alerts me in my hiding place and I tense, preparing myself for another long run should Moran appear. Already I am weary, having received more exercise in two days than would usually be forced upon me in a year, but if I am to live long enough to return home to London I must endure still more. All is silent around me now, bringing a sense of foreboding and for a moment all that I can hear is my own heartbeat and the blood roaring in my ears. Then I become aware of another sound - there is but a faint sound that is similar to the rustle of fabric, coming from behind me and I turn my head slowly. The red eyes of a gigantic adder gleam at me from beneath a nearby fallen tree and I almost give a cry of terror as I scramble backward from my place of concealment, all thoughts of Moran and his gun dashed from my mind at the sight of this new foe.

Exhausted as I am, running proves to be futile - I feel as if I am doing little more than jogging on the spot, while the monstrous serpent glides after me in a manner that seems effortless. I leap over obstacles, bound through streams and across ditches as I become increasingly desperate to escape, but the snake remains forever at my heels. My chest is burning, my vision dimming, every part of me aches with fatigue and there is now an unpleasant, fear-induced discomfort in my lower abdomen. I know that I cannot go on! In one final attempt to increase my speed I try to drag myself up a steep incline on all fours but I am badly winded and shaking. My strength is beginning to tell and the adder would seem to know it. I am lost.

I jerk awake, still being chased by the giant adder of my dream, and attempt to bring my racing heart and breathing under control as I realise that the vision, though vivid, was not real.

Every last part of me is aching, paining and protesting. My head, my eyes, my jaw, my arms, legs... I have more discomforts than I could possibly catalogue. Should I attempt to stretch or remain still? Would it make a jot of difference? Even my hair and fingernails seem to hurt, so most probably not. I very much doubt that I have been in slumber for long.

Whilst trying not to move, I study my surroundings to the best of my ability, doing my utmost to forget that dream. By the fading daylight and the glow of the fire I can see that I have been moved to the settee. Watson is stretched out in his armchair and I can dimly see that the poor fellow's face is streaked with tears and creased with worry. What have I done to him?

Further inspection of my surroundings informs me that there is a bucket on the floor, close to my head, I have been covered with rugs and there is a pitcher of water on the coffee table. Oh. Just the sight of that pitcher is enough to send me into a state of near-panic. Whether it is indeed due to the horribly vivid nightmare or the amount of water that I have been plied with I am not sure, but I have to move myself somehow or else Mrs. Hudson is going to be rather angry with me.

Carefully, I force myself into an upright position. I must not move too quickly or else I might faint. That, in my current condition, would no doubt be disastrous. Just keep calm Holmes, for Heaven's sake! You can wait. Slowly... Gently... Oh God! This is simply not normal; my bladder does not feel as if it is full in the slightest and yet my wretched body is threatening me, warning me that I am moments away from making a frightful mess on the floor! What is happening to me?

I had not realised that I had made a sound, but I have somehow alerted Watson. The fellow chooses the most inconvenient moments to be damned observant.

"What is wrong Holmes?" he asks as he approaches me. "I can see that you are in distress."

I groan and gesture in the direction of the washroom with a less than steady hand. I cannot wait! I can feel my wretched body rebelling.

"I am going to urinate!" That was nice... I could have at least attempted to remain polite. An outburst like that would have earned me a sound beating from my nanny when I was a child and if I was expected to control myself then I should be able to do so now.

"Do not panic," he advises me in an annoyingly calm tone. "If you keep calm it will be easier to control yourself. Now, lean on me. Yes, that is it. The lavatory is only a few steps away; you will be all right."

I heed his advice to the best of my ability but I am too desperate to remain calm. I am shaking with effort as much as the urgency of the situation and still I can feel myself losing control. I want to run, but that would only increase the difficulty that I am having. What is happening to me? Why is it so hard for me to wait? This should not be difficult!

"Watson..."

He nods and gives me a reassuring smile as he coaxes me ever onward. "Nearly there Holmes. Nearly there. You are doing very well."

No I am not. I fear that I am about to disappoint him terribly! My body is rebelling horribly and it is taking all of my strength to counter it. I should not be in this situation! Even when ill, I can wait for hours on end without difficulty - regardless of the level of my discomfort - as cases will sometimes dictate. The thought of losing control of myself here in my sitting room in front of Watson, like a helpless infant, is ridiculous to the extreme!

Despite my best efforts, one of my careful steps causes my wretched brain's appendix to gain the upper hand for a moment. I do not glance down to check whether there is any evidence and the nightgown that I am wearing should conceal it. I hope that my friend is unaware of what has just happened. With a groan I press on, keeping my steps measured and trying not to breathe.

As we step inside the washroom, I almost lose the battle with my wretched body completely. I know not whether it is due to the chill in the room and the cold tiles beneath my bare feet or simply the knowledge that I am in such close proximity to the lavatory. Whilst avoiding my Boswell's gaze I begin to step awkwardly from foot to foot in a final effort to control myself.

"Excuse me please Doctor," I snap at him as I resist the urge to relieve myself while he is still in the room. "I can manage now."

"Oh. Yes, of course," he retreats hastily, for which I am grateful, though he leaves the door ajar. "It is not shameful to sit, rather than to stand, when one is unwell," he reminds me quietly from behind the door, as if he fears that I might collapse were I to attempt remaining on my feet.

Hum. Perhaps I should not maintain my upright position simply to be contrary... I am feeling far worse than I ever remember feeling before. I might actually consider never partaking of cocaine again!

As I tend to myself and attempt to bring the trembling in my limbs back under control, I wonder again why this has happened. Why did I almost make a puddle in the sitting room, when I should not have even felt a strong need to visit the lavatory? Is there something wrong with me? Should I inform Watson?

I hear Watson tap at the door when I am washing my hands. "Are you all right Holmes?"

I nod without so much as turning to meet his gaze.

"Come on then, we should get you back to the sofa. Um... do you want to change your clothes?"

I freeze at the question. What is he implying? Does he know that I was not altogether successful in waiting until the right moment?

"I noticed that you were sweating Holmes," my Boswell clarifies patiently. "Do you want to wash and change into a fresh nightshirt? I imagine you are feeling somewhat uncomfortable."

I confess that I am. I should like to know why I am sweating so profusely while I am so cold though. Does cocaine usage usually affect me in such a manner?

"I truly am dreadfully sorry Holmes," my friend tells me as he escorts me from the washroom and sits me upon the settee once more, having assisted me in washing and dressing. "I shall not let this happen again."

"What is happening to me?" I ask of him, still feeling rather unnerved by the recent incident.

"You are ill old fellow! Things like this happen sometimes. You were simply too weary to be aware of nature's calling to you until it was almost too late, that is all. You did very well under the circumstances - I have seen far worse, you know."

Is the knowledge that he has seen worse truly supposed to reassure me? I avoid meeting his gaze. I should tell him that there is something wrong, but it is embarrassing and I am not quite sure how to articulate the problem in any case. Not knowing what else to do or say, I again begin to apologise.

"Please don't," he begs of me. "I know that you would not do this deliberately old fellow; you can stop apologising. Besides, you did warn me that you were in a hurry - and I shall be more inclined to listen in future."

"Thank you."

He nods and pats my knee with a compassionate smile.

"Should I feel like that again..." I shudder at the thought.

"If you become as desperate as that again I shall give you something to use," he informs me firmly. "That is precisely what I should have done this time, when I saw the level of your distress. I should know you well enough to realise that you would not make such a fuss unless you truly doubted your own ability to control yourself - and I should be apologising to you!"

I would rather not be treated as an invalid, but if it is that or a repeat performance of what could easily have transpired in our sitting room moments ago I suppose I have no choice in the matter. At least my companion is still treating me with as much dignity as he can.

"Is there anything that I can do for you?" my companion asks once I have been made comfortable and the fire has been tended. "You must be terribly bored... I could read to you, if you would like."

Watson often read to me when I was ill and weary before my hiatus. I missed that terribly - much more than I would have expected - on the last occasion that I was unwell. I missed him more than I could ever have imagined! I smile at him.

"Yes please," I mumble as I pull the rugs closer to me. I want to tell him how I have missed his narratives, but after the harm that my proposition caused this morning I am afraid to speak a word.

He nods and addresses me with a small smile. "Poetry? Shakespeare?"

"Shakespeare." I would have to be ill indeed to want to hear poetry! Though, I must confess, I did read some Browning and a little Keats and Wordsworth during my hiatus, when I was feeling particularly homesick, and imagined that it was Watson who was reading it. It worked for a week or two, but soon wore off with overuse.

His smile broadens. "Of course. Do you have a preference?"

"Surprise me."

He drags his medical bag closer to his chair and rummages in it. Then, with a nod, he withdraws a book from it.

"Do you always carry books with you?"

"Ever since I found that it helps you to settle," he responds as he stands to sit at my ankles on the settee, bringing with him his bag and the book that he has already taken from it. "I carry a little poetry and one or two stories; they often help to soothe a troubled patient. Particularly fretful women and children. I should thank you."

"Thank you Watson. I am not behaving like a fretful woman or child!"

His face flushes under my annoyed stare. "No, of course not. I was not suggesting that you were. I only meant that reading to a fretful patient has proved to be beneficial and that I only tried it because I had already discovered that it would seem to be of comfort to you."

Ah. I try to dismiss the irrational irritation, but it is still present and no doubt brought about by the narcotic more than anything else. "I would not have thought that you would have time for such things during your rounds." I am not put out, merely surprised by this revelation that this is not special treatment which is reserved just for me; after all, I am Watson's closest friend!

"I am sometimes the only fellow at hand who is able to read and write Holmes. Under those circumstances, I read something and then advise a family member to make up stories or to perhaps sing quietly."

I nod and settle back. Now I understand; it is simply a case of when needs must. That makes perfect sense.

"Now, shall I begin?" he asks as he makes himself comfortable.

I frown at him. "Why are you sitting there? Would you not be better off in your chair?" I do not wish to be seen in the throes of a nightmare - I feel that I have endured quite enough humiliation for one day! Besides, I might lash out and injure the dear chap.

"I want to be close if you need me. I do not want you to vex yourself needlessly old fellow. Now, shall I begin?"

I nod and close my eyes with a quiet sigh. I suppose the doctor knows what he is doing better than I do.

With closed eyes and my heightened imagination (courtesy of the cocaine still coursing through my veins) I can easily picture the scenes depicted in the tale. It takes the briefest of moments for me to become calmer.

When the story reaches its conclusion and I am still awake, my companion asks whether I am in any discomfort. I could easily snap at him - after all, I am aching terribly with fatigue so the answer is quite obvious - but I refrain. Watson did not have to return to care for me any more than he has to stay; if I become difficult, he has every right to send for a different doctor and abandon me in favour of his less ungrateful and stubborn patients.

"No more so than I have been since before you returned," I respond in what I hope to be an airy manner.

He grimaces. "Poor fellow! I wish I could do more for you. I could give you something for your pain, but it would have to be mild and would most likely do no good."

I nod in understanding and sneeze loudly.

"Bless you. I hope that you have not caught a cold, on top of everything else."

If I have, it is my own fault and I tell him as much. "If I become unwell it will due to the many sleepless nights, missed meals and cold and dirty rooms in which I have stayed."

"Hum, and quite probably the upset and overuse of cocaine that I have caused with my fit of temper as well."

I sniff. "That was my fault."

"According to you, everything is!" he shakes his head and rubs a hand across his eyes. "Let us just agree that we were both at fault, that we are both sorry and that, should such a dispute begin again between us, we shall discuss our differences like civilised adults as opposed to storming out without resolving the matter first."

I nod my agreement. "Very wise."

"And now you should rest," the doctor advises me with a pat to my ankle. "Even if you cannot sleep, you should at least attempt to stay quiet, still and relaxed."

That is easier said than done. I am feeling as restless as I am fatigued. All the same, my Boswell is near and I know that I am safe while I lower my guard. I could always rely on Watson.


	11. Self Pity

**Self Pity**

I am terribly bored, frustrated and irritable. Were it not for Watson's presence (not that I wish for him to leave) I would have dosed myself with Morphine long before now and to blazes with the consequences. I want to sleep, to escape this wretched lethargy, exhaustion and pain. It is now dark out and still I am unable to rest at all.

"Are you feeling any different?" my friend asks gently.

How the deuce should I know? I am in too much discomfort to be able to tell!

"Are you feeling worse?"

I shrug and cover my face with a painful and uncooperative arm. "I could not tell you."

"Poor Holmes! Is there anything that I can do?"

I shake my head and attempt to wave him away. He is not having that.

"If you feel well enough, and if I can do nothing else, could I examine you?"

Here we go. I should have been expecting it and I suppose the fellow has been good to have not demanded to be permitted to do so at once. All the same, I am not in the mood for his infernal poking and prodding.

"I would rather not, if you do not mind Watson."

"I do mind!" he snaps back at me. "Holmes, you might have died of that uncharacteristically high dosage. You do not seem to be aware of the danger that you put yourself in!"

"I am drawn to danger," I respond calmly. "I accept it as a part of my work."

"As have I in the course of my career and yours," the fellow returns in that dangerously quiet manner of his. "But facing danger as a consequence of one's profession is hardly on a par with facing it as a consequence of one's stupidity."

What am I supposed to say to that? I know that he speaks the truth. Well... "That is my own affair."

He slams his fist down on something - the coffee table? - and I hear him gasp and mutter an oath.

"No Holmes. No. You are not going to do that."

Do what?

"You are not going to pick and choose what is - and what is not - my affair! You are my friend - my closest, dearest friend - and what you do matters to me. I will not... Cannot..."

I look up at him, curious and concerned, as he falters. "Watson?"

He has covered his eyes with his right hand, a bruise already beginning to form upon it from his slamming it down on the tabletop, and he is shaking with what would appear to be silent sobs.

"Please don't old fellow. I am hardly worth it."

He shakes his head and sniffs. "I cannot lose you again. Once was enough. If only you knew..."

I want to stand, to go to him, and I force my rebellious body to do so somewhat unsteadily. Carefully, awkwardly, I slip my arm about him and rest my head at his shoulder. It is not quite the embrace that I attempted to give to him yesterday, but it will have to suffice.

"Forgive me Watson."

He nods and pats my hand. "You should lie down," he informs me. "Your hands are like ice and your face is far too hot."

I shiver and somehow resist the temptation to press myself closer to my friend for warmth.

"Come on," he says gently as he guides me back to the settee and repositions me upon it. "I do not want you to fall ill, if you have not already."

I grab his hand quickly as he pulls the rugs over me.

"Will you please allow me to tend to you?"

I shake my head. "Not important."

He addresses me with such a glare that I release his hand at once with a mumbled apology. There is so much that my Boswell should know, but there is so very much at stake - our very friendship is hanging in the balance and I know not what to do.

"What is the matter Holmes? I have not seen you behaving like this before."

Should I blame the cocaine? No, I shall simply shrug and not attempt to explain myself at all. To be truthful, I am not entirely sure why I am behaving like this... Is it due to missing the fellow for three years, the guilt that I have felt and continue to feel, the gratitude that I now feel every time that I realise that he has not treated me as I deserve and forsaken me, the anxiety that I feel when I think that I could still lose him or is all of this simply due to the cocaine? Could it be a little of each? That would most assuredly explain my odd behaviour, would it not?

Watson shakes his head and begins his examination. I somehow behave myself and resist almost every urge to bat his hands away. It is not an easy thing for a man to endure.

"Your heartbeat is fast and irregular, no doubt due to the cocaine," my friend informs me at last. "You have a stubbornly high fever - which I should tend to, seeing as it does not seem to be inclined to come down of its own accord - and you really should try to eat something."

If he tells me that I am too thin once more... I dismiss the thought at once, for that reaction most certainly is due to the narcotic. I calm myself and tell my friend that I shall eat in my own good time. I am feeling nauseous again, which I do not tell him as I still have a bucket close to hand if I should need it. Besides, it is hardly cause for concern.

I watch my Boswell leave the room and coil myself upon the settee, pulling the rugs closer to me. I wish that I could sleep and escape for a while, but I am unable to ignore even a quarter of the many protestations of my miserable body! I screw my eyes tightly shut and allow myself to groan.

"Holmes?" Watson is back at my side before I am even aware of his return to the room. "Are you all right?"

I flinch as he cools my brow with a damp cloth and somehow stifle a growl. I am as 'all right' as can be expected, I am sure.

"Can I get you anything?"

I squint at him for a long moment. "A new body would be nice." Preferably one that can survive on air alone and not decide to vomit or otherwise inconvenience me.

"Sorry old fellow; you have to look after the one that you have."

"Pshaw!"

He stops in his work a moment to gaze at me with some annoyance. "Listen here Holmes, I myself would quite like to exchange a leg and shoulder for new ones. It is not possible. One has to make do with what one has."

Sorry Watson.

He resumes his task without another word and I am left feeling as sorry for him as I am for myself.


	12. A Walk in the Park

**A Walk in the Park**

At last I am feeling some improvement, though I still am far from fully recovered. Watson has already reminded me that it has not even been a full day since my senseless 'experiment', as he calls it, with the needle. Weakness and fatigue continue to plague me, often forcing me to rest for extended periods.

I am also all too aware of the heavy atmosphere which is hanging over my Boswell and myself. It would seem that over-indulging in cocaine was not the wisest thing that I have ever done, for my companion would appear to be of the opinion that I did it to spite him. Not that he has said as much, of course.

"We shall take a walk," the fellow decides somewhat brusquely as he tosses me my stick and takes up his own. "I am tired of listening to your complaints of boredom."

I agree readily enough and retrieve my favourite (warmest) muffler from my bedroom before following my companion downstairs to the hall, where Mrs. Hudson helps us into our coats and hands us our hats.

"If you feel too cold, tell me as much right away," my friend cautions me. "I do not want you catching a chill."

I am sure that I would have before now if I was going to do so. "Of course old chap."

He frowns at me from the corner of his eye as we each ensure that we have our gloves. Then we are off out of the door and turning our steps in the direction of Regents Park.

The park is beautiful. The first flowering bulbs of the season are just opening and I point out some of them to my friend. For now, we both are a little more relaxed.

"How are you feeling?" Watson asks as he comes to my side.

Ever the doctor! I take it that he saw the shiver that I was not completely successful in suppressing. "I am all right," I assure the fellow with a smile. A little chilly perhaps, but it is still early in the year. That is to be expected.

"Good," he responds with a smile as he pats my arm. "I am sorry if my fretting annoys you Holmes, but somebody has to."

I nod, for I do understand, and almost immediately give a sneeze. The reaction to the head movement is far from unusual following cocaine usage, but he is all concern. Possibly because I failed to stifle it at all.

"Bless you! Are you becoming too cold?"

Only if you are. "Not at all! Please do stop fretting; it is a pleasant enough day and I am glad to be able to stretch my legs."

"Well... All right then," but he continues to watch me closely from the corner of his eye as I attempt to enjoy myself.

I may have missed the fellow, and I most certainly am dreading his return to his damned practice, but I have not missed the manner in which he frets over my health. I am sure that I have never worried over his health in such a manner! Well... Aside from the occasions when I have required his assistance and therefore had to know that he was fit and able to keep up with me, naturally.

He takes my arm and we resume our walk, but I am becoming weary. I falter in my stride once or twice and then my irregular pulse begins to thrum at the side of my neck and I am all at once feeling weak and faint.

Without a word the doctor leads me to a bench and we sit together, his hand resting at my shoulder as his eyes sweep over my face, which is inexplicably tingling and no doubt rather pale.

"We shall take a moment to rest and then go back," Watson decides as he squeezes my shoulder. "This was a foolish idea. You are not well enough to go out yet."

Nonsense! I am perfectly all right.

"What are you feeling like?"

I shrug. "All right. Really. I am only weary." At least I no longer feel sick and would seem able to maintain my usual level of control over my body. I have not fainted, despite my weakness; that must surely mean that I am improving.

"I suspect that 'weary' may well be an understatement Holmes. You are terribly pale."

"According to you, my complexion is 'sallow' anyhow."

He grimaces. "More so than usual old man. You look dreadful."

I shiver again and Watson draws closer to me. "We should go home."

"We have only just arrived!"

He sniffs quietly and I cast him a glance. The fellow is rubbing at the old wound at his shoulder. Why did he not tell me that he was in pain?

"Perhaps you are right. We should get back," I address him with a smile and touch his hand. It is no warmer than mine. "You are chilly yourself!"

He shrugs and sniffs again. "I was all right until we were seated."

Yes, I have been becoming ever colder since we stopped walking, myself. I haul myself to my feet as quickly as I can without the risk of another fainting spell and then my Boswell has linked his arm through mine and we are heading for home.

We are just turning onto Baker Street when Watson sneezes, causing me to stop in my tracks and stare at him for a moment.

"I hope that you have not caught a cold," I remark, more as something to say than anything else, for I feel quite ridiculous now that I have realised that I have been staring at the fellow with quite obvious concern.

"It was one sneeze," he grumbles rather defensively. "You would assure me that it was nothing to worry about."

I shrug and unwind my muffler from about my neck in order to hand it over. I then go a step further and wrap it about the throat of my friend. "After cocaine or morphine usage, indeed not; you do not indulge."

"Holmes, you must be feeling as chilled as I am at least and more so!" he retorts as he unwinds and hands the muffler back. "You are thin as a wraith and you have been unwell. Besides, it is not far now; I am all right."

I am not convinced at all but I nod and attempt to increase my speed. It is deucedly frustrating to be so laggard, for I am usually so very quick.

"Slow down old fellow!" my friend protests. "Holmes! My leg!"

Now I stop. How stupid of me! "Are you all right Watson?"

He nods and squeezes my arm. "No harm done. Just keep in mind that we are not on a race course."

I smile at him and begin to walk again, this time allowing my companion to set the pace. It is an easy enough pace to maintain, but my head is now feeling heavy. I am done up! And only from walking to the park and back! What the deuce is wrong with me? Where is my stamina, the strong constitution of which I used to boast to Watson? Will I ever be the same?


	13. Being Tended

**Being Tended**

I am not quite sure how I came to manage the stairs. Did Watson carry me? Surely he could not have managed that while his old wounds were hurting him? Why can I not remember? Did I faint?

My friend is tending to me now. I very much doubt that he has left my side for a moment since the deucedly embarrassing fainting spell in the park. He has wrapped me snugly in rugs and is attempting to push something long, smooth and cool into my mouth. A thermometer. Of course.

"Do you think you could slip this under your tongue without biting it now?" the fellow asks. "Your teeth were chattering terribly when I removed your coat."

I turn away quickly before giving a rather explosive sneeze. How I manage to avoid doing so in his face I am not quite sure.

"Bless you. You have caught a cold!"

I do not like that accusatory tone in the slightest. "It is only the cocaine. I am quite all right," I snap with a dismissive wave of my hand and irked glare.

He shrugs and slips the thermometer that he has in his hand beneath my tongue, causing me to glare anew at him. If he believes to have silenced me for two minutes he is sorely mistaken!

The doctor pats my hand and then he positions it beneath the rugs. I must admit that it is rather cold.

"I only wish to make you comfortable old fellow," he retorts in a half-humorous tone. "And to do all that I can for you."

It is true of course. I really should behave myself. I do not want to push my friend away and I hope that the expression with which I address him next tells him as much.

"Are you all right? You look so miserable..."

Perhaps my expressions say more than I would like.

"The time will be up soon old fellow. Just over a minute remaining."

Good! I am beginning to want to sneeze again. Why does the body seem to enjoy choosing the wrong moment?

"Are you all right?"

I do not nod. Instead, I smile whilst keeping my lips firmly pressed together around the wretched thermometer - which is deucedly difficult.

"Are you sure? You seem rather tense... Do you want to pay a visit?"

I do now! Why the deuce did he have to ask me that? I was all right until he mentioned it! Now, as well as trying to keep myself from sneezing I am all too aware of a much more unpleasant and pressing discomfort. I have no choice. Carefully, I pinch my nose just enough to stop the sneeze while I nod, for if I open my mouth now the reading will be wrong.

"Can it wait? You have about half a minute left and then you can use the washroom."

I am not sure. I feel much the way I did yesterday, when I came so very close to disgracing myself. I do not wish to find out whether it will be different this time or not. I tense as much as my unresponsive muscles will allow and try to keep still. Half a minute suddenly feels like an eternity.

"No?"

My expression must say it all, because my companion is rummaging in his bag in an instant while he verifies exactly what it is that I need. Then I have a receptacle in place, the rugs are providing me with all the privacy that can be given to me under such circumstances and I am trying very hard not to think too much.

It only seems a moment later when Watson removes the thermometer from my mouth and studies it. In different circumstances the wait would have been an easy one.

"Your temperature is somewhat lower than it should be," he informs me.

"What does that mean?" I ask as I rub at my irksome nose. Yesterday a fever and today... what-ever it is that the opposite is called. But surely an abnormally low body temperature is not a cause for concern?

"More than likely that you are tired. Exhausted in fact. You could do with a good meal as well."

"Be reasonable, I beg of you! I will eat. When I am hungry and not before."

He frowns back at me. "That could be never! You may not realise it Holmes, but you have been starving yourself. I can see the symptoms clearly enough."

"I have not b-been..." I slam my eyes shut and try to hold my breath. It does not work. It is not possible to avoid giving vent to a sternutation indefinitely.

"Bless you. Are you... Bless you! Are you quite... Oh! Bless you again old fellow. Are you all right?"

I nod breathlessly. That has quite winded me! Perhaps Watson was right when he said that I appear to be a little tired.

"Are you quite sure that you have not caught a cold? Your sneezing would seem to be getting worse."

"I am certain. I simply avoided sneezing until you had removed the thermometer from my mouth, that is all. Under the circumstances, it is little wonder that they became rather more violent. Holding the wretched things back often will have that effect."

"Hum. I suppose so Holmes."

We remain in silence for a moment or two and then I carefully remove the receptacle, tidy myself up and stand, tossing aside the rugs.

"What are you doing?"

I gesture in the direction of the washroom. "Is it not obvious?"

Watson holds out his hand, offering to take the offending object in my hand from me. "You should rest old fellow. Let me take care of that."

"You have had to 'take care', as you put it, of far too much already!" I protest quickly. The chap is not my nursemaid any more than Mrs. Hudson is and I will not have him cleaning up behind me while I still have the use of my legs.

I disappear into the washroom and empty and clean the bottle first and then scrub my hands and face second. My flesh is cold and slimy, as if I have been exploring a (relatively) dry storm drain, and I feel utterly disgusting. How could I possibly still be sweating while I am chilled to the very bone?

"Are you feeling all right?" Watson asks carefully as I return to the settee with a weary sigh.

"Yes."

He frowns at me for a long moment. "In that case, you should eat something. What would you like?"

I am not hungry. I am too tired to want food! Why can Watson not understand that?

"Nothing?" he sounds disappointed and... scared? "Well, I shan't force you old fellow. I do wish that you would at least try a bite of something though. I hope that you shall not mind if I eat something?"

I shake my head and sniff. "Of course not. You must be hungry."

He nods and goes off to ask Mrs. Hudson for some refreshment.

The doctor soon returns to my side and settles himself at my feet on the settee without a word. He is warm and my feet are freezing, so I do not ask him to remove himself to his armchair and instead address him with a grateful smile when he permits me to press them against him without a word of protest.

When the food arrives, it is piled high upon his plate and he protests to Mrs. Hudson that he could not possibly manage to eat all of that.

"I am sorry Doctor," the housekeeper responds, "but I have thrown out quite enough food lately. Just eat what you can sir."

Watson tries a forkfull of something as the sitting room door closes and I gaze up at the fellow. He seems to be enjoying it, at least.

"How is it?"

He swallows the mouthful and smiles at me. "It is delicious Holmes. I have missed Mrs. Hudson's cooking."

"So did I, during my travels. Living as a poor man on Mycroft's handouts was far from desirable and my own cooking is barely edible."

Watson's hand touches my leg. "Would you like to try some?"

Before I know it, I am sitting up beside the fellow, sharing his food from off of his plate. It is good and I am surprised to find that I am hungry. Very hungry.

"Perhaps you will begin to feel a little better now," my friend says hopefully as I finally hand back the spoon with which I have been helping myself. "It is little wonder that you are so tired and weak Holmes; you must eat!"

I nod and rest my head at his shoulder, for I do not want to return to a reclining position when I have just filled my stomach. Not yet.

"You are still so cold!" the chap remarks with concern. "I had hoped that the food would give you the energy to raise your temperature at least a little. Do you think a cup of tea would help?"

Would it stay where I choose to put it? I have had nothing but water since yesterday.

Before I give an answer, Watson shakes his head. "Perhaps tea and coffee should be avoided a little longer. I could ask for a hot honeyed water though, if you would like. It would at least be warming."

It would also have more flavour than plain water. I agree readily and close my eyes. "But not until you have eaten your fill old fellow," I insist as an afterthought. Watson does have to keep his own strength up, after all. Besides, I am not about to die of thirst.

I settle back, close my eyes and at last find myself able to relax somewhat. Perhaps I shall be able to get at least some restful sleep now. I just have enough presence of mind to thank my companion before Morpheus claims me.


	14. Finally Talking

**Finally Talking**

I awake alone and cold. That is odd. The fire has gone out and the room is quite dark. Where is Watson? My head does not swim when I get to my feet and my vision is clear, though my mind still seems to be somewhat fogged. I hope that that is simply due to having just awoke.

There is a note on the coffee table, written in Watson's scrawl. He has been summoned to his practice and had not the heart to wake me before he left. I sink into my chair, still staring at his note. I feel strangely lost and hurt and for a moment or two I am not quite sure what I should do with myself.

Deciding that I am feeling much improved, I at last call for a cup of tea and some... What time is it? Some breakfast. I shall take Watson's advice and eat when and as I feel the need. I want him to be pleased if - when - he returns.

While I wait for the breakfast things I wash myself thoroughly and change my clothes. Ah yes! Now I feel much better.

I have just finished eating when my faithful friend returns. His face lights up at the sight of me and he steps inside the room quickly.

"Thank goodness! You are finally looking better," he remarks cheerfully.

My heart sinks; the fellow had might as well have said 'thank God that that is over', for I know only too well that the doctor will not stay if he is not needed. Never the less, I nod and attempt to give him a smile before I lose the battle with my building emotions and lower my gaze to the dregs of my teacup.

"Well... I thought that you were. What is the matter old fellow?"

What can I tell him? I have so much to say. All those promises that I have made to myself as I waited and longed for the reunion between myself and my Boswell, and what has become of them? I am no better than I was before! I said that I would never hurt him again and yet I have actually caused him to shed tears on more than one occasion. Above all, telling him that I am sorry is not good enough; I have to show him and let him know it. Words are ten a penny.

"Holmes? Are you all right?"

I nod and allow my gaze to meet his again. "Do you have time to talk?"

He smiles and takes a seat opposite me. "Is there still tea in the pot?"

"I am afraid not. I shall just ask Mrs. Hudson for more."

We are soon seated facing one another from either side of the hearth as we sip freshly brewed tea and share a batch of Mrs. Hudson's delicious homemade biscuits.

"You did say that you wanted to talk with me," Watson prompts after a moment or two.

I fidget in my armchair and nod. "Please be patient with me old fellow; what I have to say does not come easily."

"That sounds ominous..."

I am not angry with you! Why must you jump to conclusions so? "While I was away, I swore that things would be different when I returned... that I would be different - better than I was..."

"My dear Holmes!"

I blink rapidly and turn my gaze to the fire with a sniff. "If anything, I have been worse than ever. Never before have we fought! Never!"

Before I even know that he has moved, my Boswell has taken my cup from my trembling hands. "Holmes," he says gently as he takes my hand in his. "You are no more or less to blame than I am. I shouted at you! Why are you blaming yourself?"

Because it was my fault! "Why did you shout at me?"

"Well... I over-reacted! I should know you by now."

"Yes, I suppose that you should indeed know by now that I am selfish and that my timing is not always the best."

"Stop that."

Why? It is the truth!

"Holmes, you do not have to keep apologising. I had thought that we had already agreed that we were both in the wrong and that we should move on from it. If all you wish to do is to go over that argument..."

I shake my head. "No, I do not want that at all. I simply wish to understand what went wrong, so that it does not happen again." I would tell him that he means too much to me, but how can I say that when I have abandoned him for three long years? That is something that I shall have to prove to him.

"I was in a hurry to return to my practice and caused you to say something that I did not appreciate overly much," he responds with a shrug of his uninjured shoulder.

Yes, I remember now. I told him that I was lonely, that he must be as well and that it was ridiculous that we were living separately when we can live together so very comfortably. My choice of words were none too delicate either.

"I behaved dreadfully." What more can I say?

"Had I not repeatedly interrupted you, you would have had ample time to consider your words and my feelings would most likely have been spared," he argues. "Now please stop it. What is it that you wish to say?"

I take up my teacup again and swallow the last of its contents. It does little to steady my nerves! Well, I shall simply have to swallow my pride, as well as the tea, and show him my heart. The rest is up to him.

"Watson... I have missed you terribly. I..." Take a deep breath Holmes. "I would like, if you can find it within yourself, for you to move back to Baker Street. I shall always consider this house to be as much your home as it is mine, should you live here or not." And it is not home without him. It never has and never will be.

"What about my practice?"

Sell it! "That is up to you; it is for you to decide what you wish to do and where you wish to live. Perhaps you would prefer not to live here at all."

He meets my gaze solemnly. "I did not say that Holmes."

"I wanted to say, that terrible morning, that I wished for you to think it over for as long as you need and to decide what it is that you would like to do."

He smiles at me. "Thank you Holmes. I shall do that."

I return his smile and then excuse myself and disappear into the washroom. I need a moment or two alone to calm myself. Well, at least my Boswell knows what I have had on my mind now.

When I return to the sitting room, my friend approaches me awkwardly.

"I owe you an apology or two myself old fellow. I have been hard on you."

Hardly that! "Watson..."

"No, listen to me please. I have judged you harshly. Far too harshly. That is why I became so upset and why I shouted at you."

"I deserved it!"

He stares at me for a long moment and then rests his hands upon my shoulders. "You truly believe that."

Of course I do!

He sighs and pulls me in close to him, wrapping his arms about me, and I slowly do the same. It was delayed by two days, but we are finally admitting that we have missed one another in a manner that expresses more than an entire dictionary of words ever could. As my Boswell squeezes me as if he means never to release me again I feel my eyes begin to overflow slightly. Until now I had not even realised that I was becoming tearful!

I hear my friend sniff and realise that he is shaking. Dear old Watson! I squeeze him in turn and then rub at his back.

"What a fool I have been," I hear the fellow whisper.

"It is over now," I assure him, once I have cleared my throat. "We can return to normal... if you wish it."

"I wish it!" he replies quickly. "We can at least go back to the way that things were before... when... when Mary..."

I pull him in close to me again as I realise that the fellow has not just been upset due to my supposed death and sudden return. He is still grieving for Mary, who has not died so very long ago. How could I be so stupid?

"It is all right Watson," I assure him when he all but dissolves into tears. This is not my area, but for my Boswell I shall make an effort. He needs me. "It is all right. Cry if you need to; there is no shame in it."

I know not quite why I said that, but it does sound like the sort of thing that my friend might say to me and it does seem to help, for I feel him relax in my embrace and his sobs become quieter. I rub at his back gently, saying nothing at all unless I am responding to him, until he slowly calms himself of his own accord.

"I am sorry," the fellow says at last, when he relinquishes his hold of me to dry his eyes and blow his nose. "What must you think of me?"

I drag him to the settee and sit down beside him with my hand resting at his arm. "I know that you have had a dreadful time my dear Watson. I would never judge you harshly..."

He at once bursts into tears and I stare at him in alarm. What have I said?

"Are you all right?" I ask as I grip his arm and watch him with building concern. I have known him to become tearful after a nightmare once or twice, but this is not like him at all!

He nods and coughs into his handkerchief.

Tea. He needs some more tea. I hastily pour him another cup and hand it to him.

"Thank you Holmes. I am all right old fellow," he sets aside his cup and blows his nose rather loudly. "Excuse me. I am all right now."

I wrap an arm about him and grip his shoulder as I resume my seat at his side. "It is quite all right. I am sorry if I have upset you."

"No! No, you have done nothing wrong. Do not think that."

I study him carefully. The chap sounds dreadfully hoarse and congested, though that could be due to the tears. Crying is frightfully unpleasant and I hate to do so with an audience because it is so very messy and can leave a fellow feeling so wretched. I hope that he is not emotional due to an impending illness, but there are signs... His eyes have dark circles beneath them and he is rather pale.

"You are done up," I remark, causing him to give a start. "And no wonder my dear Watson! You have been tending to me tirelessly, after all, and at what time were you sent for? It must have been before seven!"

"Now I know that you are more yourself. How did you know that it was so early?"

Because his writing and spelling was worse than the efforts of some of my Irregulars, for one thing. "Because you came back before half past ten and you look quite worn. It was no trivial matter for which you were called, I deduce, or you would have been disgruntled when you returned; therefore you were out early and gone for some time."

He nods and takes up his teacup again.

"You should get some sleep," I advise him. "You are going to give yourself a fever if you go on as you are."

He sniffs and nods again. "I will. Just let me finish my tea old fellow. Please."

"Of course. And then, when you are ready to sleep, I shall play for you. If you would like that."

The smile with which he addresses me speaks volumes. "Yes. Yes, I would like that."

I squeeze his shoulder and return his smile. It is always a pleasure to do something for Watson; he is such a warm, kindly man and he is habitually appreciative of my efforts. Not at all like me! I am a selfish wretch and I have to remind myself to show appreciation for Watson's kindness often.

When my Boswell has finished his tea I prepare the settee for him and then wait for him to ready himself for sleep. He does not take long and all but collapses into his makeshift bed when he returns to the sitting room. Poor old fellow! He has far too little regard for his own health.

I keep my promise and play my violin until I know him to be fast asleep, though the volume of his snores do trouble me. I do hope that he has not caught a cold and that I am fretting for no reason at all. I gently tuck the rugs about him snugly, being careful not to disturb him. This done, I press a hand to his forehead and then his cheek to gauge his temperature and, when I am satisfied that I can do no more, I take to my armchair.

I hope that my dear friend is all right. I must have put a terrible strain upon the poor chap. What can I do for him? I dearly want to make amends.


	15. Blind as a Beetle

**Blind as a Beetle**

I watch my slumbering Boswell from my armchair, moving only to add more fuel to the fire. The fellow is terribly pale. Did he look so ill when I walked into his consulting room? Could I truly have failed to notice? He is thinner than I remember as well, but I suppose that that is to be expected; he gained weight due to his contentment when he married so it would make sense for him to lose weight again in his grief.

Watson moans in his sleep and I hasten to his side. I hover over him, wondering whether I should attempt to comfort him or leave him be. I hardly wish to disturb the dear chap.

"Mary," I hear him whisper. His tone brings a lump to my throat.

I take his hand gently and kneel at his side. I shall say nothing; perhaps he will settle of his own accord if I merely offer him some comfort. I may not wish to wake him, but I cannot bear to ignore him while he seems to be upset either. I wish I could have returned to his side sooner! Perhaps then he would not have suffered quite as much.

The fellow sobs in his sleep and I squeeze his hand. I am here and I shall never desert him again. Never. From now on, we shall do everything together. If he agrees. First he shall have to decide to get rid of his practice, for it is the only barrier that remains between us, but that is something that he must choose to do without any prompting from me.

My first concern is my dear friend. He looks almost as unwell as he did when I met him in the laboratory of Saint Barts Hospital and I want to help him. What does the fellow need? I prescribed work, which will at least keep his mind from his grief, but work cannot help him when it is time for rest.

The fellow mutters something unintelligible and I run my free hand over his brow. Poor Watson! My presence does not seem to be enough. He wants his wife; how can I possibly be a comfort to him?

Eventually, I take to the settee at his side and position his head in my lap. The contact does seem to help and he at last returns to snoring. Thank God! It is then simply a matter of talking to him gently when he begins to fret again and touching his shoulder.

"Holmes?"

I jerk awake. How dare I fall asleep when my Boswell needs me! How frustrating that slumber comes easiest now, when I am required to remain wakeful.

"Holmes... Why am I on your lap?" he asks as he stares up at me with some confusion.

I shall not tell him the truth. Watson will only apologise for troubling me or say something equally ridiculous.

"You seemed to be somewhat uncomfortable and I hoped that this would help. Does it?"

He closes his eyes and nods with a sniff.

"You are feeling unwell."

He stares at me anew. "You could have been a doctor Holmes. You see more than I do."

"Nonsense! I know my Watson. You are congested, you are pale, you have dark circles beneath your eyes - which you closed when you nodded, which suggests a headache - and your nose looks a little redder than it should. Need I go on?"

He groans. "No."

I pat his shoulder lightly. "Let me find your bag and get you something for your head. Is there anything else that you need, aside from water?"

"Not at the moment, thank you. But how are you feeling?"

How the fellow can fret over me when he is unwell is beyond me! "I am quite all right, I assure you; I did tell you that I would be as right as rain once the cocaine wore off. You are my main concern at this moment."

With that, I call to Mrs. Hudson for drinking water (and some strong coffee) and fetch over the doctor's bag from inside the door. While we wait for the water, I insist upon taking Watson's temperature, which I am relieved to find is normal. Hopefully, he is simply fagged and has not caught anything serious.

"Aside from the headache, what are you feeling like?" I ask as I watch him massage his temples.

"Congested, as if I am catching a chill," he responds with a poorly-concealed shiver. He is also cold then.

"Nausea?"

"No, nothing like that. I am only tired Holmes."

Perhaps, but I often feel sick when I have not had enough sleep. "Good. In that case, you should have a headache powder and some drinking water and then try to sleep again."

He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "I am not sure that I could stand it. I think I would prefer to take a walk."

I would much prefer for him to stay here, in the warm. "If you have caught a cold you should..."

"Benefit from some light exercise," he interrupts. "Besides, I shall dress warmly. Are you coming?"

Yes! I shall want to know that he is all right. "First, I shall have some coffee while you take a headache powder. Then we shall see."

He smiles at me. "If you would take half the amount of care that you give to me of yourself Holmes..."

I hide a smirk. The fellow is no better than I am! "I give myself enough consideration to get by. Ah! Come in Mrs. Hudson and just set the tray down anywhere. Thank you."

Watson swallows the headache powder readily enough and then drinks some of the water gratefully while I enjoy the coffee. It clears my sleepy brain beautifully.

I have scarcely finished my second coffee when my Boswell announces that he is much improved and is ready for a trudge if I am. Of course I am! Our walk was cut short just as I was enjoying myself yesterday and I am not feeling the least unwell. However, I do wish that my friend would stay indoors. Well, I shall see that we are not outside for long even if I have to carry or drag the fellow home.

Things are going to be different this time! I select a muffler for myself from my wardrobe and hand Watson my favoured one. I am not going to have the fellow becoming any worse.

The chill in the air does not help my dear friend to convince me that he is all right. He is shivering even before we have left Baker Street and he is sniffling and sneezing so frequently that his handkerchief remains in his hand, as opposed to in its usual place up his sleeve.

"Do you wish to turn back?"

"No."

"You are unwell, my dear Watson."

He glares at me for a moment and then shakes his head. "I might be able to sleep if I could only wear myself out enough first."

I almost offer to give the poor chap some morphine when we get home, but I know that he would refuse it. What can I do?

"My dear Watson, I wish that I could help you."

The fellow smiles brightly at me, as if I have presented him with a generous gift, and pats my arm. Just knowing that I care would seem to be enough.

We stroll Regents Park at a leisurely pace. My Boswell is clearly all but spent, for his steps are slow and his injured leg is dragging terribly. Were it not for the fellow's pride I would be sorely tempted to carry him. Instead, I shorten my stride and pause to admire the beauty of early spring frequently with my companion; carefully ignoring his weakness and fatigue. Never the less, I watch him closely and ensure that I shall be ready to catch or steady him should he collapse.

It is with relief that I agree when Watson decides that we have had enough. There are clouds looming, obscuring the sun as it sinks lower and causing the hour to feel much later than it is. I am shivering, as I am missing my thicker and longer muffler, and I suspect that it is for that reason that my friend wishes to go home; he appears to be less than enthusiastic. I do know how he feels - there is nothing more unpleasant or frustrating as being exhausted yet unable to find rest. Somehow, I must find a way to help the dear chap.


	16. Fear for a Friend

**Fear for a Friend**

I take one look at Watson as I half-drag him into the hall and reach a decision. He cannot possibly climb the stairs, so I lift him into my arms and carry him. The fellow does not even give a word of protest and that troubles - frightens - me. It is this concern and alarm that enables me to manage the stairs while bearing him in my arms, for it would not be an easy task were I in perfect health. I hasten my ill friend into the sitting room to prepare him for bed before the fire. Thank God that he has left an overnight bag here in anticipation of my needing care.

Poor Watson! He is shivering violently and I can see how exhausted he is. I would have a good mind to shout at him, to tell him just how foolish he has been, but I cannot. I shall have a word when he has improved and not before.

"Come along old fellow," is all that I say as I again lift him into my arms.

My Boswell is quickly put to bed in my room, wrapped in thick, warm rugs and made as comfortable as I can manage, but there is no hearth and he is still shivering vigorously. Not knowing what else to do, I quickly throw myself into a nightshirt of my own and scramble into bed behind him, wrapping my arms about his chest and pressing myself close to his back. I feel the fellow jerk with a mighty sneeze.

"Are you all right?"

"I think so Holmes... But you should keep your distance. You have not been well yourself, lately."

Utter nonsense! "I am quite accustomed to cold symptoms," and much worse besides. "I shall be all right."

"That is quite beside the point old fellow."

"No, it is not. Now, do please try to sleep. You must rest. I shall be here should you need me."

"But..." he yawns loudly and I smile.

"That is it. Sleep. Rest. You are by no means alone."

I might be going a little too far but, as I am unable to play while I am employing myself as hot water bottle, I begin to softly hum a piece of music which I composed myself for the fellow. As I gain confidence, I add words to the notes - nothing special; simply words of comfort and reassurance. The sentences neither fit together nor rhyme, but they do seem to be of help to my ill friend. My song continues long after the doctor begins to snore and even after my throat becomes uncomfortable. I want the dear chap to rest as well as possible, unhindered by his grief.

This time, I do not sleep. Even with me pressed close to his back, my friend's shivers remain violent and persistent. He also starts to cough between snores and I listen with regret, not knowing what to do. The fellow is already propped up against the pillows and lying on his side; what more can I do for him?

I know not how long we have remained here when my Boswell's snores cease abruptly and he gives a tremendous sneeze.

"Oh..."

I hear the fellow sniffle miserably but I remain still and quiet. He might return to sleep if I leave him alone.

"Holmes? Are you awake?"

The poor fellow sounds even worse than he did when he took to the bed! I suppose that it is only natural for him to sound worse though - his throat is more than likely very dry and sore from all the snoring.

"Yes Watson. How are you?"

Another groan. "Thirsty. And I would quite like to pay a visit, if I may."

I tug the chamber pot from beneath my bed quite pointedly and then inform him that I shall get him some fresh drinking water before leaving the room. The washroom is even colder than my bedroom, what with the tiles, and I want him to be kept as warm as possible. Besides, I doubt that his poor leg could take his weight after the walk that he forced upon it.

When I return with the water, my friend is sitting at the end of the bed, huddled miserably in the rugs. I pour him a glass, assist him in drinking from it, and then take the used pot.

"I am sorry Holmes..."

"Not at all," I respond quickly. "I have to go anyway."

He grimaces. "All the same..."

"You would do the same for me and we both know it well enough. Calm yourself Watson. Now, if you would be so good as to excuse me, I shall be but a moment."

The fellow has not moved when I return. He is clearly still feeling cold and his misery is plain to see. I sit down at his side on the bed and pull him in close to me. More than anything, I want him to know that he is not alone - something that I am willing to bet had never even crossed the minds of his wretched servants. I always did think that my Boswell was too lenient with them and made far too many allowances for them, for they have never seemed to look after him or his wife adequately.

"How are you feeling?"

He sniffs and gives a shiver. "Better. With you here."

Dear old Watson! I squeeze his shoulder and rest my cheek at his temple. "I would never willingly abandon you. I never wanted to."

"I know. I know that Holmes. Just... Just stay now. Please stay."

I chuckle quietly. "Where could I go, even if I wished to leave you? And do you honestly believe that I would not be lonely without you?" I could - I have - been lonely in a crowd without my Boswell. Even my own brother could not give me the comfort or support that Watson does. Not that Mycroft is a very comforting companion to anyone...

"Are you all right Holmes?" the fellow asks suddenly. "You are very quiet."

I shrug and give his shoulder another gentle squeeze. "I thought that you might prefer peace and quiet. I can see that you are as tired as you are unwell."

"No. I have had a lot of quiet Holmes. Too much."

And so I begin to talk softly. I tell him of the adventures that we shall soon have together and promise much. He needs something to look forward to and I know how he loves excitement.

"If a case were to arrive now..." he begins, only to be interrupted by a fit of coughing.

I shake my head and rub at his back. "That would be no good; you need rest first. When you - nay, when we are both quite well, we shall work all the cases we could ever want. We shall be constantly busy and have endless excitement. If you would join me."

"Nothing would please me more," he assures me with another round of coughing.

Good! "I am glad to hear you say that. I would be lost without my Boswell. Now... lunch. You must be hungry."

He shakes his head and presses himself closer to my side with a sniffle. Now I am worried! After a long trudge in the cold he should be starving, weary or not, and he should have had enough sleep to be able to feel the pangs by now.

"Are you feeling worse?" I ask with concern as I again press my cheek to his temple. It does feel a little warmer than perhaps it should and I quickly rest my hand at his forehead. Oh God! He is quite hot.

He brushes my hand away. "I would feel hot. I have been coughing," he retorts as if reading my mind.

"You should be feeling hungry as well. What would you like? Some fruit, perhaps? That is not filling and it is very good for you."

"I would rather not."

I press myself closer to him protectively. If only I could do something! Watson would know the best action to take, while I am very much in the dark.

"Soup?"

"No Holmes. I am not hungry. My throat is very sore and I have no appetite. Please, do not go on so."

I pat his arm and apologise. When I feel ill, I do not like to be bullied and nagged either and I admit as much.

"I simply do not know what to do for you old fellow. What would you do, if I was so unwell?"

He shrugs. "Keep you warm and see that you at least have plenty to drink, I suppose."

"Are you still thirsty? You did say that your throat was sore."

He nods and then goes into a fit of sneezes that sound grating and painful. I hold him close until the sternutations come to an end and then pour some more water into his glass.

"Thank you."

"Quite all right Watson. Here, let me help; I can see that you are shivering rather violently. I think you should get back in bed when you have drank your fill, if you have no further requirements."

"I am not hungry."

That does trouble me deeply. Perhaps I should send for a doctor.

"I know; you have already told me as much. Right. Well, if you need or want nothing else, you should get some rest."

I take his empty glass away and then make him comfortable once more. I then return to sprawling behind him, keeping myself pressed close to his back with my arms about him in an effort to dispel his chills. I wish I could do more! I have never enjoyed watching my fellow man suffer - especially when the man in question is kind, compassionate Watson.

"Are you sure that you wish to stay with me?"

"If you have no objections," I respond without thinking. Why the deuce did I say that? I should never invite him to object under such circumstances! "And if there is nothing more that I can do. I do so want to help you to feel better."

"You are. Really you are. Only... you must be terribly bored..."

Bored! "Humph!"

"No?"

"No. I am not bored." After three years of separation, I am content just to be near my friend again. I am not quite sure how best to articulate how I feel, however, so I say nothing on the subject at all. All that Watson needs to know is that I am not bored in any case, surely?

"If you are quite sure."

I squeeze his arm. "If I did not wish to be here, I would not stay. Besides, I rather enjoy entertaining you."

It is the truth as well. I have longed to see him smile, to hear his laughter, for years. I hope that I shall do so soon. Real smiles and laughter, rather than the brave attempts of a man in pain. If I can only help him to once again become his old self, I shall be delighted.


	17. Playing Physician

**Playing Physician**

I awake to the urgent nagging of my body. I have been good, first forgoing pipe and cigarettes as much as possible so as not to anger or upset Watson during my recovery - which must surely be complete by now - and then continuing to do so due to my friend's congestion. Now, however, I have to smoke. I feel that I shall go mad if I do not.

Carefully, slowly, I extract myself from behind my ill friend and creep into the sitting room, expertly avoiding the floorboards that creak. I shiver, realising belatedly that I should have retrieved my dressing gown, and hastily light a fire with shaking hands, as my need for tobacco screams that this prevarication is not necessary. I have to smoke! I need to smoke! I snatch my clay pipe from the mantel, fill it hurriedly and look about me for the matches. Where the deuce did I put them? Ah yes, the coal scuttle.

I sit cross-legged on the hearth rug, hoping that at least the majority of my smoke will be drawn up the chimney, for I do not wish to disturb my Boswell. The fire is not burning well and I am cold, but I shall return to bed once my need for tobacco has been sated. I do not want Watson to awake alone in his current condition.

Though I wish to hurry back to my friend before he misses me, I make use of the washroom first. I hardly want to risk disturbing him again in the near future.

When I do finally return to my bedroom, I find my ill companion lying on his back with his clenched fists waving in the air, as if he is fighting an invisible foe. He probably is. A nightmare. Damn! That must be the last thing that he needs. Quickly, I sit at the foot of the bed and touch his knee.

"Watson? Can you hear me?"

The fellow gives a start and stares at me through glassy eyes as he sits bolt upright. "Bury the needle!" he rasps urgently at me.

I frown back at him. Does he mean to tell me to cease my occasional doses of cocaine, for stimulation, and morphine, to aid my sleep? Is this simply a selection of words uttered at random by an ill man who has just had his sleep disturbed? Dare I ask him?

"Are you all right Watson?"

He blinks and then gives another start, staring at me anew as if I have appeared from nowhere before he begins to cough. No, he clearly did not know what he was saying.

I take his hand and squeeze it. "Hello Watson. I am sorry if I disturbed you. How are you?"

He brings the racking coughs under control, gives a barely-audible groan and begins to rummage under the pillow, most likely looking for a handkerchief. I quickly get him a fresh one from my drawer.

"Thank you," he mumbles before giving his nose a vigorous blow. He does seem to be worsening.

"I think Watson, that you should see a doctor," I inform him tentatively. I do not like doctors - with the exception of my Boswell - at all and I feel rather hypocritical in saying this, but I am concerned that I am not giving the fellow adequate care.

"I am all right Holmes."

I frown at him and study his weary, glazed eyes for a long moment. "You are off your food."

"For God's sake Holmes!" he shouts back at me, sending himself into another fit of coughing.

I draw close to his side and rub at his back. He is hotter than he was. "I know. I know that I often refuse to eat, but you do not; this is not at all like you. I beg of you old fellow, could you please humour me? I only wish to know that I am indeed doing all that I can and that you are all right."

His coughing slowly subsides and he rests his head upon my shoulder wearily. Yes, he is becoming much too hot.

"I think I could manage some grapes," the fellow says quietly.

I nod and rub at his back again. If Watson is prepared to compromise then I shall do the same. I hurry through to the sitting room and retrieve the fruit dish for him.

"If you manage to eat more today than you did yesterday, I shall agree that you are improving and not send for anyone," I promise my friend as I help myself to an apple.

He groans. "That is not fair! It is customary for a fellow to grow worse before he begins to improve."

I force a smile to my lips and pat at his back.

"All right, I apologise. I simply do not relish the idea of being forced to watch you becoming worse while I am unable to do a thing about it. I do not enjoy helplessly watching you suffer."

"I know Holmes. I feel the same when you are unwell."

Unless it is self-inflicted. No! That is unfair - perhaps he simply does not know quite how to react; the fellow does vex himself terribly. I do believe that he thinks that even the weak solution of cocaine that I take occasionally could do me lasting damage, which is of course ridiculous! My constitution is a strong one; there is no need to fret over me and he should know that by now.

I wrap an arm about my friend and rub at his wounded shoulder, remembering not to squeeze it as I would the other.

"I shall tell you what I propose Watson. I shan't send for a doctor now; we shall see how you are and make a decision later. But I shall ask Mrs. Hudson for a cooling cloth and... do you have any cough medicines in that bag of yours?"

He addresses me with a glare intense enough to quite unnerve me. "You refuse to take it when I prescribe it."

"I do not need it," I retort. "But you did say that it is the coughing that is causing your heightened temperature." Ha! Put that in your pipe and smoke it old fellow! I do believe that I have you - you must now either admit that you have a fever that needs tending or that it is the cough that requires attention.

He groans and addresses me with another watery glare. "You are deucedly irritating when you wish it."

I shrug with my hands. "If you become seriously unwell, I shall have no choice but to send you to a hospital. You know that. I would much prefer to avoid that if it is at all possible. Well, unless you would prefer to go and be properly tended there..."

"It is a cold Holmes. I should have quite shrugged off the worst of it within two to four days," he reminds me with forced patience. "There is no need to bother a doctor - and as for packing me off to a hospital..."

"You shan't rid yourself of that cold at all if you continue to refuse to eat!"

He stares back at me. "It is a shame that you are unable to remember that when you are unwell. How many times have I told you as much?"

I shrug and pat his shoulder. "I shall endeavour to listen to you in the future."

"I shall hold you to that."

Yes, he damn well would! I shrug and force a smile to my lips. I would sooner live with his fretting than return to living my life completely alone.

Watson does eat some fruit, albeit with very little enthusiasm. Swallowing would appear to be painful, though he does not admit as much, and the expression on his face suggests that nothing tastes as it should.

"This is what happens when you smoke too much tobacco," I inform the chap. He was always telling me that my smoking habits are probably part of the reason that I am not overly interested in food and it is somewhat satisfying to throw some of his jibes back at him.

My Boswell groans and rubs at his forehead. "It is nothing to do with that. My throat is filled with catarrh and everything tastes foul as a result."

Poor old fellow! Yes, I have suffered with the same affliction and it is far from pleasant. "My apologises Watson. Is there nothing that I can do? I could prescribe morphine, to help you to sleep restfully."

He shakes his head. "It would not help Holmes. The side effects would most likely undo any good that it might do. It does tend to upset me. No. Bring my bag to me, please, and I shall see what I have."

I think I would prefer to tend to the fellow. It is not right that he should have to treat his own ills. "We both know that illness can leave one muddled sometimes. I would feel happier if you would trust me. Now, let me see... When I was unwell during my travels..."

My friend turns to me with such a saddened expression that I fear for a moment that he might weep.

"Are you all right Watson?"

He grips my wrist. "I am sorry Holmes. The thought of you suffering all alone..."

I smile and pull him in close to me, resting my cheek at his hot temple as I reassure him as much as I can. "I remembered your advice. I was all right. You were with me every day; I never forgot you."

The fellow sniffs and rests his head at my shoulder wearily. "I never forgot you either. I did miss you..." he sniffs again and I feel him shiver. "I am so sorry Holmes. I was so confused and upset when you returned that it did not even cross my mind that you might have suffered any hardship or illness and have to fend for yourself... But of course you would most likely have done so - three years is a very long time!"

"It is quite all right old fellow. I know that you have suffered much," I rub at his back. "You need not worry about me; I was quite all right. Really I was."

He shivers again and pulls away to give two rather violent sneezes into his handkerchief. "Oh! Oh... Do excuse me."

"Quite all right. Now... A cooling medicine for your heightened temperature... Hum. Do you need a cough suppressant or an expectorant?" I press a hand to his chest, meaning to gauge his breathing. "Has your cold settled on your chest?" I sincerely hope that it has not!

"Holmes!" my companion bats away my hand. "No, I do believe that I only have catarrh in the throat."

Only! Hum! "Then I take it that you shall want a cough suppressant, so that you can sleep the easier. Now... Is there anything else?"

Watson says not, so I call for Mrs. Hudson, hand her my list of two items and tell her to purchase anything else that might help to alleviate cold symptoms. I then return to my friend's side and offer what little comfort I can. Still I suspect that it is more grief than physical illness with which he suffers, but I am not the best man to decide - I am no more a physician than my Boswell is an accomplished detective.

While we await the arrival of medicine, I chat to Watson and do my utmost to keep him amused (and awake). I would rather not allow him to fall asleep before I can tend to him - that would mean either disturbing him, which would seem unforgivably cruel under the circumstances, or leaving off giving him anything to help until later, which I am also loath to do - he does look and sound dreadfully unwell and I am becoming increasingly concerned.

It comes as quite a relief when Mrs. Hudson sends up the items that we require. She has purchased a great many things that had not occurred to me, as well as those that had, and I quickly tend to my dear friend. I am gratified to feel that I am finally doing something of use; I cannot bear to stand idle while my Boswell is suffering, for he would do all in his power for me and has done so many a time.

Watson is soon as comfortable as he can be. I have him dosed with cold remedies, swathed in warm rugs and have placed a cooling cloth at his brow and a hot water bottle at his feet. With nothing more to do, I take to his side and once more watch over the fellow in my usual protective manner. I hope that he shall manage to sleep now and then perhaps he shall feel more inclined to eat when he awakes. I also dearly hope that he shall soon feel much improved.


	18. Signs of Improvement

**Signs of Improvement**

Watson is not as hot when he next awakes. He is still pale and his nose and throat are clearly still bothering him, but he would seem to be feeling better. That is a profound relief! I had feared that that unwise walk that we took together might have caused him to contract pneumonia.

He is feeling chilly, however, and it is little wonder - he would always move me to the settee, in front of a warm fire, if I was even slightly unwell. I really should give the chap the same treatment. Were it not for his miserable old wounds he would have been bundled onto the settee long before now, but I know how stiff and sore his poor leg and shoulder would become.

I tend to my companion's needs first, mine second, and then I play for the dear fellow. I still believe that he needs to be distracted so as to keep his mind from his grief.

"Thank you," he whispers when my last piece comes to an end. "That was wonderful."

He would seem to be restless I notice. "Are you uncomfortable?"

"What? Oh. No, not particularly - a little chilly perhaps, but that would be due to this miserable illness," he grumbles with a quiet sniffle, confirming my suspicions. "I must confess that I am bored though. I am accustomed to having something to do."

I tut playfully and wag my finger at the fellow. "You require rest and quiet."

He moans and addresses me with a half-hearted glare. "That is not amusing," he sniffs.

Poor old Watson! He must be feeling rather the more miserable than he means to let on, for a joke like that would usually at least prompt a smile from him.

"Is there anything that I can do for you?"

He shrugs.

I could play chess with him, but that would hardly be fair under the current circumstances. What can we do? My fingers are already weary and aching from playing my violin so much (the cocaine-induced fatigue must still be with me, though I do feel much improved) and I have not allowed myself very much sleep of late. While I am not feeling as unwell as poor Watson, I am not in the mood for any taxing games and I very much doubt that my companion is either. I eventually resort to telling him of my adventures in Europe.

My Boswell listens to my tales with interest, even going so far as to express a desire to take notes. I smile sadly.

"What is it Holmes?" my kindly friend asks of me with some concern.

I shrug. "I have missed you," I respond simply.

"And I you Holmes. I have wanted you with me so very badly that I keep thinking that I must be dreaming."

I squeeze his arm. "My apologies Watson."

He smiles and touches my hand. His fingers are like ice! "You are here now Holmes."

I nod and force a smile to my own lips. Yes, I am here now. "Indeed I am and I intend never to desert you again. But you are so cold! Should I ask Mrs. Hudson to prepare your bedroom and light a fire for you? I would be just as content to entertain you there."

He shakes his head and pulls his rugs ever closer. "I have already contaminated your bed and the sofa; you should have my bed as I have not slept there."

I have never heard anything so ridiculous and I say so. "I shall be all right! Really Watson! I have already told you that I am quite accustomed to cold-like symptoms - even if I were to fall ill, it would be no hardship I assure you my dear fellow."

"Piffle," he snaps back at me. "Honestly Holmes! Colds are both miserable and tiring..."

"As are the after-effects of cocaine," I interrupt him half-humourously. "I shall be all right; my constitution is a strong one."

He grumbles and rubs at his forehead. "I am not in the mood for arguing."

I chuckle quietly. "Excellent! Neither am I. Now, as my patient you should heed my advice. This room is deucedly cold and I should have you made comfortable in your own - in your old room."

He smiles at my mistake but shakes his head. Why are doctors so damned stubborn? With a sigh I press myself close to him so as to give him some warmth.

"I am content here," Watson assures me quietly, while he rests his head at my shoulder. "I must have been wrapped with every blanket that we have in the house at any rate - I cannot possibly be as cold as I feel."

I suppose not. All the same, I would prefer to move him into a room that has a fireplace in it.

"You must be cold though," my Boswell observes suddenly, pulling himself from his drowsy state enough to sit up and gaze at me. "Perhaps you should share my blankets, if you truly do intend to stay here with me."

I accept his invitation readily enough; I am feeling the chill in the room - despite the weight of my dressing gown - and I would rather not give my kindly and fretful companion any cause to become concerned for my health. I only wish that I had thought of that before I decided to partake of the cocaine!

We share some fruit and then Watson gradually returns to slumbering while I continue to watch over the dear chap. I know not what more I can do for him, but at least he does seem to be improving. Perhaps I can cease my fretting and hovering soon - I can see that I am irritating my Boswell.


	19. In Need of Assistance

**In Need of Advice**

I awake shivering. I am cold - freezing cold - and the reason is obvious, for Watson's place on my mattress is vacant and devoid of warmth, thus indicating that he has been absent for quite a time.

My first thought is that the fellow is probably in the washroom, as I have not permitted him to leave the bed to visit it and he has been fevered - he probably has been feeling the need to wash himself and change his clothes. However, I cannot hear a sound - no running or splashing water from the washbasin, no movements - all is still and I am deeply troubled. Might he have collapsed somewhere in a faint? The noise should have alerted me if he had, but something must surely have disturbed me. Besides, I have already witnessed a fainting spell in him - something that I would never have imagined to be a possibility where my robust, staunch Boswell is concerned - and I cannot help but worry that it is this cold, which he must surely have already been catching when I returned, that must be the cause of his previous one simply because he never faints.

Fearing for my dear - my only - friend, I hasten from my bed. I am about to run to my bedroom door when a strong sneeze sounds from behind it. Is it possible for a fellow to sneeze while unconscious? Even if it is possible, the muscles slacken somewhat in unconsciousness and so a sternutation would no doubt sound very different in such a state. Perhaps the fellow has simply gone into the sitting room so as to be away from my ceaseless fretting and hovering - I would have done the same before now - and I slow my ragged, panicked breathing, still my trembling hands and snatch up my dressing gown as I force myself to think rationally.

The fire has not been lit, for there is no glow to be seen beneath my door. For how long has Watson been lying or sitting in the cold and dark? Does he intend to make his damned cold worse?

Brushing aside my building anger and concern for the moment, I quietly enter the sitting room and look about me. Watson is seated upon the settee, his head turned very deliberately away so that I cannot see his face. The fire has indeed not been lit, though the fellow did have the sense to pull on his dressing gown.

"Hello Holmes," he mutters without turning to meet my gaze. "I am all right old fellow. Go back to bed."

He does not sound all right! His nose is clearly blocked, his voice is rasping within his throat - he sounds almost as if he has been crying. Oh! Suddenly, his unwillingness to meet my gaze makes perfect sense to me and I approach his back, being careful to avoid any possibility of catching even a glimpse of my Boswell's face. I can see that his shoulders are shaking and that the glass of whisky that he has in his hands is almost being spilt by the action. 'All right' indeed! Ha!

With slow, deliberate movements I place my hands upon his shoulders and gently caress his collarbone with my thumbs in an attempt to soothe the fellow. "Would talking to me be of any help to you?"

I hear him sniff and he places his glass upon the coffee table to pull a handkerchief from up his sleeve. "I am all right Holmes," he repeats quietly.

"In that case, you should return to bed before you make that wretched cold of yours worse," I respond just as softly.

He sniffs again and blows his nose. His shoulders are still quaking, but not as much as they were. Poor Watson! What can have upset him so?

"Is there anything that I can do for you?"

My Boswell merely shakes his head forcefully, dislodging a tear from his cheek and causing it to land upon my hand, and attempts to wave me away. I square my shoulders.

"Watson... I have no intention to interfere, but it is clear to me that you are grieving and I would prefer not to leave you alone - one should never be left alone in such a condition and least of all a man of your calibre..." What the deuce am I saying? Well, perhaps my sleep-deprived brain knows better than I do, for his shoulders are relaxing beneath my fingers. I nod to myself and press on. "You do not have to say a word if you would prefer to order your thoughts in silence - you know that that is always my preference - but I cannot and will not leave you while you are so obviously disturbed."

I feel him draw a deep breath, followed by another. His shoulders continue to shake slightly as he does so, though he does seem to be calming. Good!

"Would you like to sit down Holmes?"

Without a word I pat his uninjured shoulder and then make my way to the hearth to light the fire. I will not have my Boswell allowing that damned cold to worsen, even if he is himself quite indifferent. When did the fellow cease to give his own well-being any thought at all? I am not accustomed to facing a self-destructive Watson and this situation terrifies me.

Once I have successfully kindled a cheerful blaze in our fireplace I seat myself beside my dear friend. Again I am careful to avoid looking into his face (hurting the doctor's pride will most certainly only serve to have me ordered from the room) and simply take his hand in mine, squeezing gently.

"Thank you Holmes. I am so sorry..."

I hear the sob that threatens to completely overpower his ability to speak as he attempts to apologise for I know not what and hastily assure him that there is nothing to be sorry about.

"You have suffered much," I note quietly, feeling a lump come to my own throat as I consider just how much of the suffering of which I speak was caused by me. "No, no! You have nothing to apologise for."

I would again add my own apologies, but I know that I am not the cause of my friend's current emotional state and I do not wish for him to believe that I am so arrogant and self-absorbed that I could think that I am.

There, he would appear to be calming down now. His sobs are becoming less frequent and he has almost ceased to shake entirely. I slowly draw closer to his side and slip an arm about his shoulders, immediately causing the fellow to tense and turn a rather unnerving glare upon me. I stop at once and withdraw my hand. What the deuce have I done wrong?

"Go away," my companion orders me in a very quiet - and relatively calm and measured - tone of voice.

Go away? "What have I done wrong?"

"Just go away and leave me alone!" he shouts at me, causing his voice to become hoarse and choke him.

I do not need to be told again - it is clear that my presence is only upsetting him further. I stand quickly and retreat to my bedroom, feeling very confused and dejected. What have I done to upset Watson so? I had thought that my support had been of help! I throw myself onto my bed and cover my face with my arms and sheets.

In the next room, I can hear the sound of Watson's choked sobs. I am sure that he will not be able to hear any sound that I might make but still I ensure that my own tears fall silently.

When I next awake, there is a dull, grey light streaming in through the gap in my bedroom curtains, informing me that it is now daylight (albeit not so very light). I groan and rub a hand over my aching forehead as I sit up and look about me. I have been sleeping above my coverlets in my dressing gown and Watson is nowhere to be seen. Watson! The memory of what ever it was that occurred in the early hours of the morning come flooding back and it takes all of my self-control to keep myself from succumbing to despair a second time in one morning.

It is high time that I confess to needing help.

I drag myself from my bed, ignoring the protestations of my cold, stiff body and pounding head, and wash with the near-freezing water on my washstand from the night before. I then pull on the first suit that I take from my wardrobe (I must thank Mrs. Hudson for washing and ironing the clothes that were in my bags), snatch up my coat, hat and cane (but forget my muffler and gloves) and leave the house as quickly as silence will permit.

As I hail a cab I make a hasty decision. I shan't visit Mycroft - my brother knows less about friendships than I. Who can I turn to? Lestrade. The inspector would seem to be quite a kind man, for all his arrogance that he aims toward me, and Watson has told me that they have become quite close in my absence. Perhaps he will be so good as to help me for Watson's sake. I can only hope that he will.


	20. Mr Lestrade

_I have decided to make up for my own hiatus by submitting long chapters thick and fast, it would seem. I must thank my dear friend and Beta, Ems, for her assistance, because without her this chapter would have taken me considerably longer and would more than likely have still been illegible._

_While I am handing out my "thank you"s, thank you to all of my reviewers - particularly those of you that I cannot respond to by Private Message. It is always nice to receive feedback and to know that one's story is being enjoyed.  
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**Mr. Lestrade**

Lestrade would appear to be pleased to receive me - albeit somewhat surprised at my arrival at this time of the morning. Apparently, it is not terribly polite to appear unannounced on a fellow's doorstep before nine o'clock of a morning without any warning.

I am showed into the parlour and Mrs. Lestrade takes my hat, stick and coat while she offers me a cup of tea and some breakfast. Her husband looks on with some amusement as she bullies me into sitting down and "at least taking a cup of tea and some biscuits" - I suspect that the inspector is rather proud of his wife.

"What brings you here at this hour, Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade enquires with poorly-contained curiosity as I warm my hands on my steaming cup and try not to sniff - there is a delicious smell coming from the kitchen, but my nerves are much too frayed to permit me to partake of anything.

It is time to swallow my pride. "I should like your advice," I confess quietly.

He grins at me for a moment, his dark eyes twinkling, and hastily sets aside his own cup and saucer. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes wants my advice!" he crows. "I never thought I'd see the day! What sort of a case is it? A gruesome murder, in which all of the likely suspects have solid alibis? Or perhaps it's a theft that has you stumped?"

I shake my head and take a long, calming sip of my tea. "It is nothing of that sort Lestrade. Forgive me, perhaps I am wasting your time..."

"Not at all Mr. Holmes! Not at all!" the fellow insists hastily. "Please, tell me all. I should like to think that you could ask my advice about anything you wanted to - as an acquaintance if not as a colleague - I'd be glad to help you if I can."

Even after all these years, the inspector still only counts the two of us as 'acquaintances', while Watson was rather quick to befriend me - and the Yarder, once he came to know the fellow. I envy the doctor - he makes friends so very effortlessly, while I can only look on and wonder how exactly he does it. I cannot help but wonder whether Lestrade would call my friend his friend, or another mere acquaintance.

"Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade prompts me, a look of - is that concern or mere curiosity? - probable curiosity upon his face as he gazes at me. "What ever is the matter?"

I realise that his eyes keep drifting to my teacup and glance down to find that my hands are shaking. That most certainly will not do! I finish my drink hastily, set aside the cup and place my hands in my lap so as to better control them.

Lestrade clears his throat and I realise that I have still not explained myself.

"It is Watson," I inform my 'acquaintance' as my eyes study the ceiling of his parlour. "He is unwell and grieving and..." I close my eyes for a moment and draw a deep, if somewhat shaky, breath. "...and nothing that I do or say would seem to be helping him at all. I am at my wits' end!"

"Ah-ha," he nods and allows his eyes to flick over me. "You thought that your friendship could just go back to the way that it was before you decided to play at being dead for three years, did you?"

I groan and rub at my aching forehead. "I had hoped that it had. We had seemed to put the last three years behind us, once I explained my reasons to Watson to the best of my ability. I think the fellow at least understands now that I only intended to keep him safe..."

He snorts and shakes his head. "You didn't see how he reacted. You weren't left to try to help him pick up the pieces again when he came home. Good God Mr. Holmes! How can you sit there and say that you thought that he understands? It's not as simple as that - he's been hurt and he's grieving. Feelings can't always just be swept aside by rational thought - however rational a gent might be. He needs time and patience."

I nod and swallow carefully, hoping that Lestrade cannot see my emotional state at this moment. "I am only trying to help the fellow! I know that he needs time - I am giving him time! - but he cannot go on as he is. He is not eating, he has clearly not been sleeping properly..." I run a hand through my hair and realise that I have not even thought to comb it before I left the house and that it is in disarray. "He has made himself ill and he is only going to make himself worse - he has a dreadful cold as it is and he has been fevered."

"Right, I think I see... You've been trying to look after him, as a good friend should, and he's being less than co-operative. Is that it?"

I slam my eyes shut and nod again. "Sometimes, he appreciates the effort that I am making - regardless of whether I actually succeed in doing him any good or not - but on other occasions he becomes angry... annoyed... impatient..." I shrug with my hands. "He sends me away in a fit of temper and I am left wondering what I have done wrong."

The Yarder smirks at me. "Have you tried asking him?"

"No."

"Why not?"

How can I admit that I am afraid that he will only shout at me again? I simply shrug my shoulders and turn my attention to the flickering flames in the hearth.

"Mr. Holmes," the inspector begins with a sigh. "I really have no idea what to say to you. You are a good detective - some might even say a great one, pride permitting - but you are not very..." he clears his throat and fidgets in his chair. "Your knowledge of human emotion needs some reviewing, perhaps."

I grind my teeth and clench my fists. I know about fear, anger - even love! - and if my knowledge of human emotion was so very lacking I would not be much of a detective at all. I have made my own studies of human psychology, thank you very much Mr. Lestrade!

He holds up his hands as I prepare to stand. "Calm down Mr. Holmes. Perhaps I should have worded that a little more delicately. Please, stay seated."

I force myself to relax as much as is possible, though my fists remain clenched.

"Now... What I mean to say is this..." he clears his throat and rubs at the back of his neck. "Perhaps you and Doctor Watson have the same problem - you are both allowing your own emotional responses to cloud your judgement. Is that possible?"

What emotional responses? "I always maintain a very firm control over my emotions."

"Yes..." he gazes at me for a long moment. "Usually you do, yes. But I have seen you lose control of yourself once or twice, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, so don't give me that. Now... Had it even crossed your mind that perhaps the doctor is not actually angry or upset with you at all?"

I blink back at him. "Then why would he shout at me and send me away?"

"Well... I can think of one or two reasons, off of the top of my head," he responds slowly, as if I have a sluggish brain that might struggle to keep up with him. "Pride would be the most likely explanation - perhaps he simply would prefer it if you didn't see him in the state that he is in. He has tried to turn me away when I called by to see him after Mrs. Watson passed away and that was my first thought then."

I feel my eyes widen in horror. "And so you simply permitted him to suffer alone?"

He stares back at me, affronted. "Of course I did not! The doctor is my friend as well, you know!"

That answers my earlier question, but I no longer care about that. "But Watson can be most forceful - and I always feel that my presence will only disturb the fellow further! How can one possibly...?"

"The doctor has been unwell, you say?" Lestrade asks, changing the subject. "How unwell, exactly?"

"Oh..." I rub at my paining head and sniff. "Unwell enough to cause me to fear for him. He insists that he will be over the worst of it soon enough, but he is barely eating and his sleep could hardly be called restful..."

He nods. "Grief can have that affect on the strongest of men and it never manifests itself in quite the same way twice. I'm not surprised that the poor chap is ill."

"Neither am I," I confess. "But still I feel horribly incompetent as a friend - I feel that I should be able to do something for him."

Lestrade's eyes widen and he gapes at me for a long moment. He then smiles and pats my hand. "I shall call by this evening," he assures me. "Where is the doctor? His house or yours?"

"Baker Street of course!" Where else would he be?

It takes me a moment to remember that Watson still has his practice and that I have no idea how it is faring in his absence. Perhaps he is also fretting about that, as I would my own practice if I were away from it without any opportunity to prepare it first. I shall have to call in there on my way home to ensure that all is in order - I do hope that my friend's neighbour knows that the fellow is away from home and is looking after his practice for him.

"I shall call by at around six o'clock," the inspector tells me. "I don't think I'll tell him that you've mentioned his being unwell though - he might not like that. If you prefer, I shall say that I called by to see him and his neighbour said that he was with you."

I thank Lestrade for his thoughtfulness, again decline the offer of breakfast and collect my outdoor clothing before stepping out into the street to discover that the weather has decided to match my dismal mood further by starting to rain. Oh well, at least Watson is in the warm and his friend the inspector intends to provide what assistance he can. I square my shoulders and attempt to hail a cab.


	21. Grieving is Horrible

**Grieving is Horrible**

By the time that I reach Baker Street the hour is approaching noon. I am chilled to the bone and as wet as I am weary, but I am home. I toss aside the provided rugs and step down from the cab, casting a nervous glance toward the windows of our sitting room as I pay the driver. I wonder whether Watson's mood will have improved at all in my absence.

"Mr. Holmes! Just look at you!" Mrs. Hudson scolds as I step inside and wearily wipe my feet. "You are soaking wet! What have you been doing?"

I attempt to shrug nonchalantly but I am much too cold and my muscles are tense from shivering. "I have been out Mrs. Hudson," I inform her through chattering teeth. "Watson wanted some time to himself."

She raises her eyebrows at me and frowns. "I hope that you have not had another quarrel," she says in a somewhat accusatory tone, as if I am the only fellow that has a nasty temper when the mood takes him.

How tempting it is to snap at our irksome housekeeper! Never the less I calm myself, keeping in mind the support and patience that she has given to me when I have been most in need. It would never do to lose my temper with her now.

"Mrs. Hudson, as you can see I am chilled to the marrow and quite fagged. I should be most grateful if you would be so kind as to bring me a hot cup of coffee."

Her blue eyes sweep over me as her annoyance changes to concern. "Are you all right sir? I hope that you are not going to become as unwell as the poor doctor. He has been coughing all morning and was so hoarse when I spoke to him last that I could barely understand him - I gave him a little brandy and left him with plenty of drinking water."

I had been about to lose patience when she mentioned my own health, but I am grateful to her for caring for my Boswell in my absence and say so. "But I am not ill," I add. "I am merely weary and in need of a good, strong cup of coffee and perhaps a change of clothes. Excuse me."

She tuts. "Humph! 'Perhaps a change of clothes' indeed! I should think that that should be the first priority."

I nod and casually silence a sneeze. "I shall be all right," I assure the fretting woman over my shoulder as I make my way up the seventeen steps to my bedroom. I do not wish to see Watson just yet - he will only become unnecessarily concerned if he sees me like this.

As I let myself into my bedroom, shedding my freezing clothes that cling to my quaking frame the moment I have closed the door, Watson calls out to me. His throat truly does sound strained and I hardly want him to attempt raising his voice like that again and so I hastily open the door of the room that joins onto that of our sitting room, ensuring that I remain out of his sight.

"Are you all right Holmes?" my Boswell enquires as his footsteps approach the open door. "I saw how terribly wet and cold you were when you drew up in the cab."

I shake some of the water from my hair and run a hand over my wet face. There are still drops dribbling down my neck and dripping from the tip of my nose.

"Here," my friend hands me a towel that he has obviously brought from the washroom. "You should dry your hair before you catch your death of cold. Would you like a brandy? I shall get you one while you change your clothes - come through to the sitting room once you are decent."

Until this moment, I had forgotten that the majority of my clothes are strewn across the floor of my bedroom. What must the fellow think of me? But I trust Watson and simply do not behave around him as I would any other - I simply forget myself in his presence. Did I ever behave in this manner before my exile?

When I come through to the sitting room, my companion has a brandy warming upon the mantelpiece for me while he sips at a drink of his own. He is not looking at all well, but he at least does not seem as morose as he did last night. Hum! I cannot help but wonder whether it is merely his desire to tend to me - and the sense of purpose that doing so presents to him when he does so - that has temporarily improved his mood. I shall humour him as much as my pride shall permit me to do.

"Where ever did you go to this morning?" my Boswell asks of me. "You left very early - did you actually get any sleep last night at all?"

I narrow my eyes against a building desire to sneeze, unwisely turning my gaze to the fire burning within the grate so that he cannot tell the reason for my temporary silence. This only stimulates my nose and sinuses further and I quickly silence two sternutations, successfully (I hope) disguising them by nodding. There is no need to worry my dear friend.

"Yes, I have had sufficient sleep," I assure the fellow. "In answer to your first question, I rose early so as to visit your practice."

His eyes widen in surprise. "My practice? Why the deuce would you want to go there?"

I shrug and sip at my brandy gratefully. "I thought that you might be worrying about it, so I decided that perhaps I should ensure that all was in order. I hope that you do not mind, but we both know how I would fret were I forced to abandon my practice - however necessary it might be at the time - and I wanted only to put your mind at rest if I could. Your neighbour is doing an admirable job and you have nothing to fret about. He sends his regards and hopes that you make a swift recovery, by the way."

Watson reaches across to touch my arm gently, his expressive face showing his gratitude. "That was very kind of you Holmes. Thank you."

"My pleasure," I respond with a quick twitch of my lips. After the fellow's sudden outburst last night, I know not quite how to behave and any smile that I give him is nervous at best.

He sighs and pats my arm before withdrawing his hand and slumping back in his chair. "My behaviour last night was inexcusable," he says after a moment. "Please forgive me. I was not thinking rationally - I was not..." he shakes his head and rubs a hand across his eyes. "I was not thinking of you at all."

"Well, why should you?" I ask of him. "It can hardly be said that I have given you any reason to. Besides, I am a brain without a heart - I have no feelings that you could hurt."

The fellow gazes at me for a long moment. "We both know that that is utter piffling nonsense Holmes. I shall thank you to never talk like that again."

"My apologies Watson," I mumble, whilst wondering what exactly I have said wrong on this occasion. "Do you wish to tell me what exactly I did last night that upset you so?"

He shakes his head and sneezes into the crook of his arm, clearly having been caught off guard and unable to snatch up his handkerchief in time. "It was not your doing. I was merely upset."

"Do you wish to discuss the matter?" I prompt him as gently as I can. "A wise doctor once told me that a problem shared is -"

"No," he interrupts me forcefully.

I shrug my shoulders and sip at my drink.

"My emotions are much too raw Holmes. I cannot... I would make an idiot of myself."

Oh Watson! I set aside my brandy glass and shake my head. "Grieving is horrible! My dear Watson, becoming upset under the circumstances is to be expected! Now, I should like to think that you do not have to hide your emotions from me. Am I no longer trustworthy?"

"Holmes, you simply do not wish to see me in such a state."

I crouch before his chair and take his hand in mine. Perhaps I should show him some of my heart, if I dare. "I wish to give you my support," I assure him firmly. "Whether I am comfortable or know quite what to do or not, I at least should like to remain at your side and... and to share your burden, my dear fellow - as you have shared mine on numerous occasions."

A slow smile of gratitude spreads across his face. "Thank you."

I shrug and run a hand through my damp hair. "I have suffered loss in my life - I at least understand how you feel. I only wish that I could be of more use to you."

Watson snorts and hastily pulls a handkerchief from up his sleeve. "You do more than you know," he assures me as he dabs at his nose with the cloth.

"I hope that I do help you in some way," I confess quietly as I study my friend's face. "I have longed to do nothing else ever since I heard the news. Had I been able, I would have returned to your side as fast as steam would allow."

"Thank you Holmes," he repeats before attempting to blow his nose quietly.

I squeeze his arm and return to my chair, still feeling at a loss. When I stayed with my grandmother in France she taught me a great deal about human psychology, seeming to know more about emotion than the entire English branch of my family combined. Perhaps being French made a difference - they understand passion, while the English are expected to ignore the whispers of the heart. How I wish that I had been a better student. If only I could turn to my grandmother now!


	22. Lestrade's Visit

**Lestrade's Visit**

Inspector Lestrade is as reliable - and punctual - as I remember him. All the same, I do feel some resentment when my Boswell (who had been convalescing on the settee with his watering eyes closed and a handkerchief covering his nose until the little man arrived) sits up with a bright smile, somewhat similar to the one with which he addressed me when he realised that I was alive.

I (somewhat brusquely, I must admit) gesture for Lestrade to sit down whilst feigning interest in his reason for his arrival - after all, I do know why he is here. However, he ignores me and hurries to take to Watson's side, urging him all the while to remain seated.

"Doctor Watson! Are you all right?" the irksome inspector asks as if I have not described my friend's condition to him at all. I watch with growing irritation as he takes Watson's hand and sits beside him on the settee. "Your neighbour told me that you were here, but I assumed that you were tending to Mr. Holmes - not that he has been caring for you."

I will not growl. I shall not give the irritating little man the satisfaction. How dare he!

Watson coughs into his handkerchief and gives a quiet groan. "Holmes has been... very supportive."

"Really?" Lestrade smirks at me. "I never would have thought that he was capable of it!"

I shove my hands into my trouser pockets so as to avoid giving any indication as to how tempted I am to wring the fellow's neck.

My Boswell closes his eyes and shakes his head slowly, the action urging me to check the clock (again) and calculate how much longer it is before he can take another headache powder.

"That is unfair Lestrade," my dear friend chides the imbecile beside him. "Holmes is very considerate - well, when he remembers."

"Thank you Watson." What a charitable fellow he is. Humph! Well, if they are going to band together against me I shall leave the doctor in the care of his new best friend and get on with arranging my newspaper clippings and amending my common-place books. Lestrade clearly considers himself to be the better qualified of the two of us and Watson would appear to be in agreement with him.

While I am working quietly, I hear Lestrade whisper in a conspiratorial manner to my friend of old. "Do you think I've upset him?"

"What? Oh, he shall soon calm down when he realises that we were joking," the doctor responds with a dreadfully unpleasant-sounding sniff. "Though I suppose that it was rather unreasonable of me - Holmes truly has been very solicitous in his manner toward me ever since his return from... well, ever since he came home."

I refrain from looking up from my work - it would never do for them to know that I am listening.

"He has hardly left my side since I became unwell," Watson adds quietly.

"You say that as if it were offensive!" Lestrade remarks with some surprise.

There is a long pause and I continue to pay close attention to my work as if I were completely oblivious to their discussion. If Watson truly needs room to breathe I shall remain in my bedroom tomorrow. I massage my forehead, which has not ceased to pain me since I awoke, privately wondering whether it would be terribly selfish of me to take one of the headache powders from our supply when my companion is suffering so horribly.

"It is not that," my Boswell groans. "I merely... I am unaccustomed to being tended in such a manner... the last time that anyone did, it was by... by Mary..."

I stiffen. Poor Watson! How could I have failed to realise or understand? What a dreadful friend I am!

"You can hardly blame Mr. Holmes for that Doctor."

"No. No, of course not - and I don't. I am truly grateful to Holmes - and deeply touched - I did not expect such support from him or anyone else. But I know not quite how I feel at present and... and..." he gives a somewhat shaky sigh. "Forgive me Inspector - you no doubt think me ridiculous."

"Not a bit of it!" Lestrade assures him emphatically. "I dread to think how I'd react if I lost my wife."

Watson's immediate reaction is a strangled, half-stifled sob. "I hope that you shall never find out."

I feel my throat constrict and swallow carefully. It is incredibly difficult for me to hear the suffering in my staunch biographer's tone, for I have always considered the fellow to be the stronger of the two of us - I could never go to war, as he has done, nor endure many of the things that he has. This battered, beaten Watson is not the man - the metaphorical anchor - that I knew before my exile and this situation terrifies me.

"Is there anything that I can do?"

I glance up in time to see my friend of old shake his head and pat the inspector's arm. "No, I don't think so. I suppose I just need time."

Lestrade nods and again takes his hand. "I'll drop by again to see you tomorrow, if you and Mr. Holmes have no objections."

How nice of him to remember me - this is, after all, my house!

"Thank you Inspector. I shall try to be -"

The Yarder cuts him off quickly. "You shan't have to try to be anything on my account Doctor Watson - you should never have to put on a special act around friends." That said, the little fellow approaches me and all but drags me from the room, out onto the landing outside.

"Lestrade! I must protest!" I fold my arms and suppress a shiver.

"You two really need to sit down and talk to each other - properly. Have you given him a chance to tell you how he feels, or anything?"

I shrug. "Watson has never been the sort to do that - if anything, I imagine that he writes such things down in his journal."

His eyes light up. "That's an idea! How about trying this: get some cheap paper and both of you sit together, write down all the things that are bothering you - if you have anything troubling you, that is - and then burn the paper when you're done. You never know, it might do the doctor some good - and I'm sure he'd give it a try if you're prepared to."

"It is certainly worth a try. Thank you."

He shrugs and scratches at his ear. "It's something I get my son to do, when he's upset about something - sometimes he gets so troubled that he has a job getting his words out, so I make him sit down in the corner, put what he feels on the paper and then he folds it up and gives it to me, to burn in the fire. He can usually talk to me or his mother after that."

"Ingenious," I congratulate him.

He shrugs again. "I am not sure about that, but it seems to work and that's the main thing."

I shall have to try it. At this moment, I shall be prepared to give anything a try if it might only help my Boswell - he certainly would appear to need more than mere medicine, for that seems to be doing little more than temporarily easing the worst of his symptoms.

"You do not mind my coming back tomorrow, do you?" the little fellow asks of me, as if he knows perfectly well that he has irritated me.

"Of course not!" I assure him quickly. "Your support is appreciated Lestrade - greatly appreciated. Forgive me, I am simply not myself today."

He frowns at me with a somewhat critical expression. "Are you all right? Those in the position of carer do tend to be forgotten somewhat and you do have to take care of yourself as well as the doctor."

I nod and wave aside his concern. "I am always all right! Until tomorrow Inspector."

"Until tomorrow then Mr. Holmes," he returns with a small smile. "I'll see myself out - you had best get back to Doctor Watson and your nice, warm fire."

I wait until he has hurried down the stairs before I lean against the balustrade beside me and run a hand over my eyes. I have barely stopped since Watson fell ill, had not exactly rested well even before that and I am now feeling quite done up. I would like nothing more but to curl up somewhere warm and quiet and sleep for an eternity.

Later. I shall sleep later.


	23. Mending Watson

**Mending Watson**

"It was nice to see Lestrade," Watson remarks when I have finally dragged myself back to my chair beside the fire. "He might not be very quick to admit it, but he is really very fond of you Holmes - he did let it slip that he missed you on occasion."

I grind my teeth, unable to appreciate the inspector's sentiment in light of how thoughtless it was of him. Has my Boswell not suffered enough, without being told by men who would not consider me to be more than a mere acquaintance that they also miss me? I should like to give the imbecile a piece of my mind!

"Are you all right Holmes?" my dear friend asks of me. "You are very quiet."

"Yes. Yes, I am quite all right," I assure him with a wave of my hand. "Forgive me Watson."

He frowns at me and studies my face for a long moment. "Would you promise to inform me the moment that you begin to feel unwell?"

I hardly wish to worry the fellow! He has enough to concern himself with of late, without having me added to them.

"Promise me," he repeats firmly. "You cannot know just how far it would go towards putting my mind at rest."

"Watson..." I run a hand over my face wearily. "I assure you that I am not ailing - I am merely a little fagged and nothing more."

His glassy eyes study me again. "I am not just talking about right now Holmes. I mean for you to be perfectly honest with me from now on - it is deucedly unfair that I can hide nothing what so ever from you, while you..." he is forced to pause his speech by a fit of coughing and I hurry to pour him some more water.

Tentatively, I sit beside my friend of old and hand him the glass, still daring not to touch him or even look at him too keenly.

"Thank you Holmes," he sips at the water gratefully. "Where was I?"

I begin to study my fingers so as to avoid meeting his gaze. "You were bemoaning how unfair it is that I keep things from you when I know how you are by simply hearing your tread on the stairs or seeing the way in which you stand or move."

"Ah. Yes," he chuckles quietly and then sets aside his glass to cough into his handkerchief. "I am a doctor, but I find it deucedly difficult to know when you are suffering - much less what you might be suffering of - and that has to change old fellow; if you cannot even trust me to know when you are unwell..."

"I do trust you!" I all but shout at him. "Watson, it is not a question of trust."

His eyes meet mine in a questioning and irritated glare as he slowly raises an eyebrow at me. "Then what is it?"

I slam my eyes shut, run my hand through my hair and force myself to my feet to begin to pace furiously. "Pride," I grate at him at last. "Mostly, it is my damned pride. I am accustomed to managing on my own and so I intend to continue to do so."

Watson laughs behind me and I whirl to face him, causing my head to swim slightly even as I stare at him in irked confusion.

"Thank you for your honesty Holmes," he acknowledges with a small smile. "It would seem that we are both guilty of allowing our pride to get the better of us."

I lower my gaze and give a slight nod. "It would appear that we do indeed both share that weakness, yes."

He nods in turn and beckons for me to come and resume my seat beside him on the settee once more. "And when it is not simply a matter of pride?" he prompts as I sit with a weary sigh.

I give a slight start and stare at him.

"You said that it was 'mostly' due to your pride Holmes."

"Did I?" I blink back at him and lick my dry lips. I know not quite what to tell him now.

"Yes, you did old man. Come on now - what are you not telling me?"

I squirm in my seat and again make a study of my hands.

"Holmes?" He is losing patience now - even with his irritated throat, his tone is perfectly discernible.

"It would no doubt hurt your pride old fellow. I know not quite..."

He huffs and glares at me anew.

"I do not like to worry or inconvenience you - and you do fret," I find myself saying without weighing my words at all. "One sneeze is enough to cause you to panic - God only knows how you might react if I were to confess to feeling even slightly unwell!"

"I do not 'panic'," my friend retorts. "I admit that I fret Holmes, but your lack of care would cause anyone that knows you to worry - for goodness sake, even Lestrade and the other fellows at Scotland Yard worry and they are not as fond of you as I am!"

He again begins to cough and I hand him back his glass of water.

"Thank you."

I pat his arm somewhat uncertainly. "Forgive me Watson. I mean no offence in what I say; I simply do not like to cause you unnecessary concern."

I hear the fellow give a sigh beside me. There is the sound of the glass being returned to the coffee table and then Watson's head comes to rest at my shoulder.

"You are not angry with me?" I hear my voice ask nervously.

He shakes his head very slightly but is otherwise still. "I am frustrated and I dearly wish that I could understand your thought process at times, but no I am most certainly not angry with you."

I feel the tension that I had not even been aware of until this moment slowly leave me and I give a relieved sigh.

"Nor would I ever become angry with you for falling ill and requiring assistance - you are my friend Holmes! I would be as glad to tend to you in sickness or injury as I would be to accompany you on one of your cases."

He truly means that - what have I done to deserve such a friend? I can think of nothing!

"Promise me that you shall at least attempt to be honest with me. Please."

I nod and clear my throat. "If it will put your mind at rest then I promise, though Heaven only knows why you should trouble yourself so on my account."

He again gives his head a barely-perceptible shake and then sniffs. "Do I have to explain it to you?"

I shrug and excuse myself to stand. I suppose that we should give Lestrade's suggestion a try, though I am not quite sure how I shall broach the subject with Watson - the very idea seems ludicrous to me now. Well, it will at least distract him from his current subject, which can only be a point in the notion's favour.

"What are you doing Holmes?" my friend asks of me as I begin to rummage around at my desk, tossing papers left and right in my quest for clean paper and pencils (I very much doubt that three-year-old ink would work terribly well and Mrs. Hudson would undoubtedly have a fit should she catch us using writing pens on our settee).

"Holmes?" he asks again, turning to watch me over his shoulder. "What the deuce are you doing?"

"I wish to try something that was suggested to me by Lestrade," I respond with a dismissive wave of my free hand. "It seems quite ridiculous if you ask me - perhaps I should have made a small wager with him that it would never work."

He frowns at me, his curiosity clearly roused. "Oh? What was his suggestion?"

The Yarder did suggest that I try the technique as well, if only to persuade Watson to do the same. I wonder if allowing him to think that it was meant as a benefit to me would sway him at all. I shrug again, maintaining my nonchalant façade.

"Oh, it is supposed to help with nightmares, I believe. I have not been able to sleep peacefully since the incident with the cocaine."

"That is quite normal, I understand."

Which is precisely why I told the fellow that I have been suffering with nightmares, as opposed to some emotional upset - he would never believe that whether it was true or not.

I eventually find an old sketchbook that I had quite forgotten about - as the single, half-finished sketch within illustrates. I tear the page from the book and toss it upon the fire (I did not complete it as it was not turning out as I wanted it), so that I need not find it again. This done, I remove the page to which that one was attached and hand the sketchbook to my Boswell.

"I need a pencil," I tell the fellow by way of explanation before returning to going through the drawers of my desk. "I am sure that I had at least one - more than one. Where the deuce are they? Mrs. Hudson! Why does the damned woman have to move all that is not strapped down? Mrs. Hudson! Where the Hell are the pencils that I had in my desk?"

"Holmes!" Watson scolds. "That is quite enough of that. You should not talk to a lady in such a manner."

I whirl to retort that I am not talking to a lady; I am talking to my wretched housekeeper, who has moved something that she had no business to touch, when the woman in question storms into the room and sets two pencils of her own down on the coffee table. With a "Humph!" she then sweeps from the room again, slamming the door behind her.

"There you are Holmes," my friend of old groans. "Two pencils. I suggest that you thank Mrs. Hudson and apologise for your behaviour."

I shall concern myself with such trivialities later. I sit beside my Boswell and tap at my lip with the pencil that I have picked up, narrowing my eyes in thought. What can I possibly write?

"What exactly is this exercise in aid of?"

I give an exasperated sigh. "The idea is that I make a list of the things that trouble me and then toss them into the fire. The very idea is preposterous!"

"I must disagree with you," my dear friend corrects me. "Writing can be very therapeutic - I myself first started to keep a journal as a means to ease some of my frustration, when I was invalided home."

"Then perhaps we should both try Lestrade's little exercise," I respond with a shrug as I stare down at the page that I am balancing on my knee, hoping that the fellow will take any outward sign of excitement on my part as a desire to put this experiment behind me.

"That might be a good idea," he admits as he takes up the pencil and folds his sheet of paper in half.

I still know not what to write. I am not grieving and I feel perfectly well - what can I possibly find to bemoan to a piece of drawing paper?

Watson shifts at my side and gives two rather unpleasant-sounding sneezes. Poor fellow! How I wish that I could do something of any use for him, rather than sitting at his side and watching him suffer.

Ah! Now I know what to write and jot down a single sentence. It is, at the very least, a start. I then stare down at the paper in the vain hope of finding further inspiration until my weary eyes become dim and misty. For just how long have I forgone sleep? It feels like an age! Even I must rest at some point, however much I may wish to avoid it, and I would rather not partake of my cocaine again to help me to remain wakeful - the memory of my over-indulgence is much too fresh in my mind (and, I dare say, that of my staunch biographer as well) and my dear friend is much too weak for me to want to try his nerves in so callous a manner anyhow. Perhaps I should throw my words upon the fire now, seeing as my weary body and mind would appear to no longer be able to ignore the summons of Morpheus.

With a weary groan I open misty eyes. The fire is still burning, the room is quite dim and Watson is gazing at me with some concern.

"Lestrade's suggestion would seem to have worked," he notes with just the hint of a smile. "You have been asleep for almost three and a half hours - do you feel better for it?"

I rub at my forehead and attempt to conceal a yawn as I slowly sit up. "I am quite well Watson - merely a trifle weary. How are you?"

His face lights up and he pats at my shoulder. "I do feel a little better. I actually feel that I could eat a hearty meal."

Excellent! At the words I find the energy to leap from my chair and bound to the door of the sitting room. "Mrs. Hudson! When will supper be ready? Doctor Watson is starving!"

"Holmes!" the fellow chastises me. "I cannot possibly manage a hearty meal - it would more than likely upset my digestion after my prolonged fast. Broth is what I need for now."

I apologise quietly and turn my attention to the door as I hear the footsteps of our housekeeper approach it. From her tread alone I know that she is somewhat irked.

"I shall feed the good doctor only if you agree to take some supper as well Mr. Holmes," she informs me as she quietly enters. "You have eaten no more than he has and you really must keep up your strength - you are both much too thin at present."

Humph! "I can assure you, Mrs. Hudson, that my weight has not changed at all since I first took up lodgings here."

"Then I must disagree - as I am sure that Doctor Watson will - for you lost rather a lot of weight before your disappearance and you look worse now than you did then, if that is at all possible. You need food and rest Mr. Holmes, or you are going to become even more unwell than the poor doctor has been and you'll hamper his own recovery by worrying him."

I suppress a growl of frustration at finding myself to be out-numbered and out-manoeuvred. "Very well. I shall also take some broth, if I may. Watson informs me that it is the best thing to have after a fast, lest one cause one's digestion to become upset."

She beams a smile at me, addresses Watson with a very fond, motherly expression and then leaves the room even more quietly than she entered it.

"How I have missed that dear lady," I hear Watson murmur softly.

I would never admit as much out loud, but it would appear that he has successfully voiced my own thoughts. How good it is to be home, to be among friends... How different things could have been, had those friends not been so very loyal. Even Lestrade would seem to be at least trying to forgive my three years of deception, though it would appear that he is rather more hurt and angry for my dear biographer's sake than his own - which makes it rather the more easy to forgive him.


	24. To Return to Normal

I am not at all keen on broth. The horrid stuff reminds me of days of illness at home - and, later, boarding school - when I would be bossed by my nanny, governess or perhaps a school nurse while I was unable to defend myself at all. I am not vulnerable in the slightest and yet broth can somehow cause me to feel it. No, I do not like the foul slop at all - and yet, for my concerned friend, I shall submit and eat it.

"This is good," Watson remarks, breaking the silence for the first time since we took to the table. "I had not realised just how hungry I had become - I am finding it difficult to keep from eating too quickly."

His words are most certainly a comfort, for I have been dreadfully worried about the dear chap. Indeed, that helps me to find my own appetite.

"You were hungry!" Mrs. Hudson notes cheerfully when she clears our empty dishes. "Would either of you like anything else?"

Watson shakes his head. "Small amounts taken frequently would be the best way for a few days," he tells her. "I am sorry to have worried you so - we both are."

I nod and address her with a hesitant smile. I know that we have both given her quite enough cause for concern of late.

"Quite all right," she assures us with a kind, motherly sort of smile. "Well, I expect you'll both want an early night so I shall lock up now. Will you be wanting anything else at all? Tea? Coffee?"

I shake my head and lean back in my chair. I feel so very deucedly sleepy now that my wretched stomach is full but I still want to watch over my recovering Boswell.

"Very well then gentlemen. I shall see that your beds are warmed for you and a fire lit in your bedroom doctor. Or will you be sleeping in the sitting room Mr. Holmes?"

I confirm that I shall be sleeping on the settee, causing her to tut quietly.

"We should have that boarded up window repaired if you will insist on sleeping in here. You are going to catch your death of cold."

"I shall be all right," I snap at her. Dash it all! I do not need mothering. "I have already sent for a glazier; he could not fit us in at once but should be here tomorrow. If he is not, I shall send for him again until I become a nuisance, if necessary. Besides, I have plugged every gap with cloth - the worst of the draught has thus been stopped."

"Good! Sitting about in a draught is not going to do either one of you any good at all and poor Doctor Watson is already poorly."

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson. I am aware of that and doing my very best. I do not enjoy watching my friend suffer either."

She grumbles quietly as she bustles about the room. "I shall see that your bed and room are nicely warmed in wait for you Doctor Watson. Mr. Holmes..."

"Good night Mrs. Hudson," I dismiss her somewhat abruptly.

My companion attempts to stifle a yawn as our housekeeper leaves the sitting room. The poor fellow looks so very worn, as if he has not had a single night of restful sleep in an eternity.

"I do believe that Mrs. Hudson is right and that we should soon retire for the night," I remark quietly. "You look as weary as I feel old fellow."

He smiles at that. "I am glad to hear you admit to also being tired at last," says he. "I was afraid that I might have to sedate you if you did not wind down soon."

"Ha! I should like very much to see you try it old fellow! I would have to be completely done - all but dead on my feet - for you to succeed."

He gives a shudder at my words. "I sincerely hope, Holmes, that I shall never be given cause to attempt it. If you would only have a care..."

I hastily reach across the table and take his hand in mine, squeezing gently. His palm is no longer too hot and his fingers are not so cold - he is indeed finally improving and the return of his appetite should see him restored to his robust old self speedily. I only wish that I could offer him some form of reassurance - he would undoubtedly recover all the faster if he was not constantly fretting over me.

"I know that you cannot help it," says he with a nod of his head as his honest eyes gaze into mine and his hand returns the squeeze.

I clear my throat quietly and squirm in my seat. "Seeing as we neither of us take nearly so much care of ourselves as we should and each appear to prefer the need of the other..."

His eyes light up with comprehension and he nods, finishing the proposition for me. "Perhaps we should each learn to listen to the other without allowing our pride to get in the way or for our tempers to flare..."

"Though I confess that it may prove difficult on my part - particularly if you recommend or, worse still, insist that I drop or postpone a case..."

"We are both guilty of over-working ourselves for the sake of clients and patients. We shall simply have to learn to put our trust in our friends and colleagues. I do believe that we can help one another."

Perhaps. I must confess that my dear friend's optimism is somewhat contagious.

"If I am to sell my practice and move back here, we are going to have to learn to compromise," the dear chap remarks. "We are becoming too old to quarrel or storm out on one another in a fit of rage."

"We are not old! You only feel old because you have been so horribly unwell and..." and then I stop. Did I hear him correctly? Dare I hope? "You wish to move back to Baker Street?"

The smile slowly fades from his face and it is his turn to fidget. "Well... That is, of course, if the invitation is still..."

"It is! Of course it is!" I find myself interrupting, rudely shouting at him in my vehemence. "How could it not be? How could I not want you here?"

He is staring back at me in shock at my outburst and I slowly calm myself, taking one deep, calming breath after another as I close my eyes.

"Then that is all the reason that I need," says he with a nod. "You are, after all, the closest to family that I have left to me now. I cannot possibly stay on at my practice; though I shall regret selling it, I am sure. Mary bought it for me..."

And all at once he covers his eyes with a quaking hand. I am glad that he cannot see me, for my usually firm lips are trembling slightly and my eyes are also pricking with tears in sympathy and - I realise - a little grief of my own. Mary was a fine woman and a perfect match for my gallant companion and I would have liked to have said a good-bye of sorts - to have at least thanked her for her love and care of my dear friend. Slowly, on less than steady legs, I stand and go to him, placing my hands upon his shoulders. The hand that is not covering his eyes slowly reaches his shoulder to take mine as it rests there to squeeze it.

We remain in quiet for a moment or two. Only the sound of the ticking clock and Watson's sobs and sniffles breaking the silence of the sitting room.

"I am so very sorry," my friend whispers suddenly, causing me to gaze down at him. "What must you think of me?"

My gaze softens as I regard him, his back still turned to me, one hand still covering his eyes, hiding his tears from the world, while the other attempts to comfort and reassure me. What a brave, good fellow my Watson is!

"I think that you have suffered more than any man should," I respond, doing my utmost to keep my own voice steady. "You have no reason to be ashamed; you are not like the cowards that cry for their own sakes - you shed tears because you have a noble, compassionate heart."

"Thank you Holmes. All the same, I am truly sorry that you must see me like this. I know that I must soon get over my grief and move on."

I tense, squeezing my dear friend's shoulders much too tightly. What callous fellow has told him that? A young man, too young and naive to know anything of grief, or a man too cold or stupid to understand? I have seen enough grief to know well enough that a man with a great heart, like my Boswell, cannot simply 'get over it'.

"That is nonsense old fellow; there is no rushing grief. You shall 'get over it' when you are ready and not a moment sooner. For now, you require time, patience and friendship. You shall not weather this alone."

He breaks down into sobs again. I dearly wish that I knew what to do to help the poor fellow, but perhaps simply remaining quiet and giving him my time will be enough.

"I am so very sorry Holmes," my friend whispers hoarsely when his tears have at last ran dry. "I know that such shows of emotion... bother you."

I shake my head and squeeze his shoulders. "Not at all Watson. I wish only that I was of more help to you."

"I know," he sniffs and rubs a hand across his eyes. "I know. I saw the paper that you wrote on when I tossed it onto the fire for you. I did not mean to read it, but... Did you truly mean it?"

"I would not have written it otherwise," I mutter. I did not mean for him to read it!

He scoffs and gives a rather violent sneeze. "Excu-" and is interrupted by another. My poor Watson! "Excuse me. Would you care to tell me just what you meant by 'a true friend would know what to do'?"

I shrug with a grimace. "Lestrade was more of a comfort than I have been."

"Lestrade is also a friend and colleague Holmes. Besides, I was doing my utmost to put on a brave show for him - I cannot help it. I do not like to permit my friends to see me... like this. Were I half the actor that you are, I would also put on a brave show for you, but I could never keep it up for long enough."

"Doing so would not be healthy in any case, as you must surely know." And I care not a jot how he behaves in my company - I wish that I could tell him that it does not matter to me in a way that he could understand. Why can I not make him understand?

"All the same, I am truly sorry Holmes."

"You have done no wrong, there is no need for you to apologise and I am sorry that I am of no help or comfort at all. You would receive better companionship from a snowman."

He laughs softly. "What nonsense! You do more than you know. All the same, I should return to my practice soon - there is much to sort out. I shall have to decide what should be kept and what I can part with."

Then he truly does wish to move back to Baker Street. I should be elated, but I know how painful this is likely to be for my dear friend and my heart remains heavy. I comfort myself with the knowledge that he at least will not be alone in what was once his happy home.

"Should you need an extra pair of hands - or even just some company and support - I would be glad to accompany you."

"Thank you Holmes. I might just take you up on that."

I pat his shoulders. "Not just yet though Watson - remain here until your congestion has eased at the very least. You should keep warm and rest."

"Yes doctor," he retorts in the very tone that I have so often used when he has given me such advice.

I decide to mimic him in turn. I snatch up a rug and wrap it about his shoulders. "I am not at all surprised that you have caught a cold - up all night, no food, out in all winds and weather... You should get into your night clothes at once and rest beside the fire. No rich foods and no tobacco until I say otherwise."

"I am not like that at all. Not over a cold. And I have never berated you in such a manner."

He has on occasion, but perhaps he had been feeling unwell himself at the time. I honestly cannot recall the circumstances. I shrug and permit myself a chuckle. "I was joking old fellow." Perhaps that was a mistake.

He grumbles and pulls the rug closer. Yes, it was a mistake.

"Are you still chilly?" I ask, changing the subject.

He responds with a rather irked sniff. "I have a cold."

"You do sound dreadfully tired as well. Go and make use of the washroom while I see that your bedroom is ready for you - you really should sleep in your own bed you know; yours is the warmest room in the house."

He sniffs again and stands slowly. "Good night Holmes."

"Good rest Watson."

It takes him three days to rid himself of his cough, though the sneezing does persist somewhat. However, the doctor assures me that colds tend to become sneezier (if that is a word - well, I suppose that it is now) as their sufferers rid themselves of the things and therefore it is a good sign. Hum...

Eventually, I can no longer persuade my friend to remain. Now that the window has been mended and I have quite recovered from the incident concerning the cocaine, the chap no longer feels that he should stay. Never the less, I am worried about the dear fellow - supposing he should become unwell again? Would he send for me? Would his servants give him adequate care?

I content myself by stationing Irregulars to watch over my friend (discreetly, of course). I also find myself plenty of reasons to call on my dear companion of old, so that I can ensure that he is all right and knows himself to be alone no longer.

Desperate though I am for a new case, I know that Watson could really do with a holiday before we embark on anything else. Perhaps I should put the money in my now accessible bank account to good use and take him away for a week or so. I believe the Riviera is very pleasant at this time of year.

If he does not find a buyer at the end of this week I shall buy his practice from him myself. Watson always seems happiest when he visits me at Baker Street and I want him back here, safe and sound, under my watchful eye. I can still see traces of that damned cold - particularly fatigue - in him and that troubles me above all else. Well, I shall have him moved in before this month is over and then I shall be able to tend to him. Perhaps he simply requires rest, company and good food (his cook is appalling!) and will recover quickly with a holiday. I do hope so.

I have a cousin that owes me a favour or two. I found him his position at the theatre and he remains grateful. Perhaps he might help me in purchasing Watson's practice. I shall have to research the expected price of such buildings. Perhaps my cousin could keep the building and rent it to a doctor as a secondary income (goodness knows, he could do with it!). In any case, what becomes of the practice is of little consequence to me - my concern is Watson. I do believe that he needs me.


	25. As Things Should Be

**As Things Should Be**

The day has finally arrived. I have not slept a wink what with my anticipation and I cannot help but wonder whether my Boswell feels the same way.

My nervous stomach is somewhat queasy and I take an apple from the fruit dish on the sideboard, hoping that a bite or two of the fruit might help. I hardly want my friend of old's first observation upon seeing me to be that I look unwell. Having had two or three bites, I find that I feel a little better and set the remainder aside. I shall be all right once Watson arrives.

My companion does not arrive before lunch time, as previously arranged. I pace restlessly and snarl at Mrs. Hudson in what I must confess is bordering anxiety when she enquires when I should like my luncheon. I am not hungry! Where the deuce is Watson? Could he be hurt? Has that dreadful cold that he caught soon after my return decided to have one more fling? Why is he so late?

When at last the doctor does arrive, it is almost tea time. I see at once that his old wounds are troubling him, for his arm is stiff and he is limping, and he is quite fagged and pale.

"I am sorry that I am so late Holmes. One of my patients called me out early this morning..."

"And another - a patient suffering with anxiety, amongst other things - called on you before you could get away and you spent rather a long time soothing his nerves."

My friend's face expresses his surprise and I chuckle quietly to myself.

My amusement does not last for long. Watson has a great many boxes and chests, many of which are much too heavy for him to manage (which more than likely explains the pain that he is in). I struggle to lift his first chest and gasp as my arms and shoulders protest.

"This thing is ridiculously heavy!" I complain as I attempt to climb the stairs while my vision is obscured. "What the deuce have you got in here Watson?"

The fellow chuckles. "You volunteered to carry it old fellow. As for what it contains... Only my medical journals and a monograph or two."

"You must have an entire forest in here!" I do not really mind - an aching back is a small price to pay for having my friend of old moving in with me once more and I could hardly stand by and permit him to struggle with his heavier possessions.

This time the doctor laughs out loud and I smile to myself. It is good to hear him laugh.

My companion is attempting to lift another chest - this one meant for clothes - when I come back down. How I wish that he would not exert himself so!

"Watson! I told you to leave the heavier boxes. You look quite done up - at what time were you called out this morning?"

"Early," he confesses. "But I am all right Holmes."

My eyes begin to appraise his appearance before I can stop them.

"I am all right," he repeats somewhat forcefully.

I nod and leap the last three stairs (and a stack of boxes) to approach his side and touch his arm. "Forgive me old fellow."

"If you are not going to permit me to manage my luggage alone, at least allow me to assist you with the heavier boxes," he insists, his temper calming, as he takes one of the handles of the chest that he had been attempting to struggle with.

"Very well old fellow."

I must confess that I am in fact grateful to him, for this chest is even heavier than the last. It turns out to contain copies of the Strand, along with old and new journals and one or two sketchbooks. The fact that this chest is heavier speaks volumes, but I pass no remark.

His bookshelf and desk come next and I set the boxes down in our sitting room. They can be assembled when we have eaten.

"I am glad that I insisted that you keep my old cane sofa and chairs," Watson remarks. "They are not heavy, but that would be even more furniture to assemble."

He is becoming increasingly weary and that is not surprising. "Leave the rest to me old fellow - you have had a long day as it is and I can manage." I wisely choose not to mention that he has been unwell lately and instead descend the stairs to the remaining pile of my friend's belongings in the hall.

I carry Watson's chest of clothes upstairs - both flights - next and then he insists on helping me with the boxes of those items that he could not part with (I ensure that I take the larger and heavier ones, though most of them are quite light).

I do not ask what he has kept and I resist the temptation to have a quick look at the contents. My friend will tell me if he wishes to - I must behave myself.

When the hall is at last clear Watson rings for tea and I settle myself in my chair beside the hearth. How I have longed for this day to come! It is so good to have him here with me - permanently - once more.

"Welcome home Doctor Watson," says Mrs. Hudson as she deposits the tea things on our sideboard. "It is nice to have you back."

My companion of old smiles warmly at her. "It is nice to be back. Thank you."

Before he can reach the sideboard I am there already. Hastily I pour the tea and hand the fellow his cup and saucer. "Welcome back my dear fellow."

He gives me a small smile and takes to his chair. "Thank you Holmes."

I allow him to drink his tea in silence but do not permit him to dwell too much upon the past. I know that his mind is going to keep turning to Mary, the miracle denied him.

When he shows signs of becoming morose I retrieve my violin and play his very favourite pieces, watching as my friend's shoulders gradually relax. I dearly wish that I could do more.

The doctor needs time and support to heal, but that is the very reason that made me want him here as badly as I do. It might be considered wrong to want him here for my own selfish reasons, such as my loneliness, but it surely cannot be wrong to want to care for the fellow now that his wife is not here to do so. I know as well as anyone that Mary took very good care of my dear Boswell.

I continue to play until dinner time, hoping all the while to convey something of the sentiments that I am unable to voice. I hope that the dear chap at least knows that I mean to be a better man - and a better friend - than I ever was before.

He deserves a better friend than I, but if I am all that he wants I shall remain close to his side. I could never leave him alone again, for this is how life is meant to be; all is right in the world when my Watson and I are united.


End file.
